Mr Darcy's Bed
by S. Faith
Summary: Waking up in a strange bed is more than a little disorienting. In commemoration of the 200th anniversary of the publication of Pride and Prejudice. Six chapters total.
1. Chapter 1

**Mr Darcy's Bed**

By S. Faith, © 2012, 2013  
Words: 30,808 in six chapters  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: Waking up in a strange bed is more than a little disorienting…  
Disclaimer: Bridget and Mark aren't mine; you know to whom the others belong. In this work of extreme fiction, certain other characters are assumed to have been based on actual living human beings, and certain places are assumed to have been (and still be) real. Suspend your disbelief just a _little_ bit more.  
Notes: In commemoration of the 200th anniversary of the publication of _Pride and Prejudice_.

* * *

**Chapter 1.**

_A Friday evening, late summer / early autumn_

Absolute perfection.

The surprise, the drive north, the gasp in awe as the car rounded the corner and the estate came into view, the timeless stone façades bathed in the golden light and long shadows of the setting sun… all were absolute perfection.

"You know where we are?" he asked, the smug expression telling her that he knew the answer already.

"Oh my God," she said as she took it all in, her hand covering her gaping mouth. She then looked to him. "And we're having a _minibreak_ here."

"We are." He glanced to her, the smirk still upon his lips. "Though I almost didn't get a booking. I think they quite thought I was taking the mickey when I gave them my name for the room reservation."

She laughed, then reached over, pushing aside her seat belt, and tried to kiss him.

"Bridget, I'm driving," he said sternly, gently pushing her back into her seat.

"Don't care," she said. "I could die right now and I'd be happy."

"Would rather not, if it's all the same," he said, humour back in his voice as they drove the final curve and approached the front of the estate.

Pemberley.

She still remembered the expression on his face, humouring her with a cocked brow as she'd explained to him once that yes, there really was an estate in Derbyshire, there had been a family called Darcy—"Maybe they're even your relations, Mark!" she'd added.

"I think not," he'd said quite curtly, and that had been the end of the conversation… or so she had thought. How on earth would she have ever guessed he'd carried that nugget of info away and booked a room for the weekend to celebrate their engagement? It was too good for words.

"You know," she said as the car came to a halt at the main entrance, "you are a hopeless romantic, as much as you may deny it."

"I don't deny it," he said, "if making you happy makes me a 'romantic.'" The way he said the last word—as if it were foreign to his tongue or had a funny taste—made her chuckle again. She slipped off the seatbelt and leaned over to kiss him again.

This was interrupted by the appearance at Mark's door of a young man fitted out with the livery of a Regency footman. She turned and found another at her own. "Suppose we ought to get checked in," she said with a grin.

She was filled with the same sort of glee she'd once reserved, as a child, waiting for Christmas morning and bags filled with presents at the foot of the bed. The actual estate, the grounds of which the actual dark and brooding master himself had walked, surveying his domain, barking crisp orders, hunted for fowl with his friends, hosted balls…

"Bridget." It was Mark. "You're off in your own world." His voice was firm, but he was smiling. He extended his elbow to escort her in, which she accepted.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "It's such a dream come true."

He leaned and kissed her on the temple. "You do realise that actor fellow of yours is not going to be here, don't you?" he teased quietly as they began the ascent.

"Oh, hush," she said, holding her head high with the regal bearing she imagined a lady of the Regency period would have had.

Within short order they were checked in, then led through the positively cavernous halls lined with gilt-framed portraits and pillared statuary to a glorious suite, resplendent with authentic period furnishings. She noticed that there was the occasional item that was fixed behind a glass display case. "Those are originals, miss," said the footman. "We have them behind glass to discourage their being touched."

"Oh, wow," she said breathlessly.

When they were shown their room, she was so in awe of it that she hardly noticed the footman had gone, and only did when she gasped to see that there was a pitcher and wash basin on the bureau, also in a glass case and fixed down for its own protection. "It's beautiful," she said reverently, peering down at the delicate Dutch blue flowers on the side of the pitcher. "I can't believe they have these things in the rooms! _Antiques! Imagine!_"

Mark chuckled. "You sound a little like your mother there," he explained, setting the bags on a chair next to the bureau.

"Hmm," she said; she was not truly annoyed at the comment, but felt as if he should pay for it: "Perhaps I should heed her advice, then. After all, it doesn't feel right to shag in a Regency bed."

He chuckled again. "Sorry to laugh, darling. It's just… there's no way you'll not have sex all weekend in the biggest suite in the place… just to spite me."

She pursed her lips, pulled the corner of her mouth up. He was right.

"The sun's already going down," he said, deftly changing the subject as he went to the broad expanse of window. She joined him; he slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his embrace. It was an astonishing view, marred only by the occasional reminder of the modern world: the motor of an auto driving by, lights flickering on to illuminate the grounds, the sound of conversation carrying on the wind from the outdoor tables from the restaurant downstairs. "Perhaps we can wait to have a tour of the grounds tomorrow when it's daytime," he went on. "Maybe tonight we can just have dinner and retire early. It's been a long drive."

"Okay," she said, putting her own arm around his waist, skimming her fingernails along the fabric of his shirt.

"In fact, if you like, we can have our dinner en suite."

"Actually, no, I'd like to see a bit of the place. Let's go downstairs."

"I was hoping you'd say so," he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. "I rather like the idea of showing you off."

She made a dismissive sound, though blushed furiously. "Oh! I feel like I should put on a proper frock."

"This is not to my knowledge a period weekend," he teased. He released her, then stepped away. "Come on, let's have dinner. I'm suddenly famished."

"I need to freshen up a bit. Change into a pretty dress."

"Five minutes, no more," he said. "As if you need more than that."

Twenty minutes later, as he escorted her on his arm down towards the restaurant, Bridget was again agog at the simple splendour of the place. She felt like a miniature in comparison to the grand, arching ceilings, which, if not for the electric lighting, might have disappeared upward into shadow.

A sign outside of the restaurant declared that at one time, the room was the great ballroom. Massive electric chandeliers and candelabra made to look like real candles sat within their limbs; multiple fireplaces adorned with statuary; gilt decoration on the cornices and in the coffers on the ceiling; enormous paintings gracing every wall. "And to think they've kept everything authentic to the era," she said. "Positively cavernous! Can you imagine having dinner in a room like this one _every night_?" She was aware that once again she sounded like her mother.

"I can't, to be honest," he said. "I prefer something a bit more cosy." He seemed to notice just then that she'd changed into a loose, flowing, white cotton summer dress. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," she said with a smile. "You don't look half-bad yourself."

They were greeted by a maître d', who led them to a table near to one of the lit fireplaces. It may have still technically been summer, but they were almost to September and the night was growing cool already. "Do you think they'll light the fireplace in our room?" she asked excitedly as he pushed her chair in for her.

"The fireplaces are gas, darling. Look." As he took his own seat she saw that indeed, it was a gas fireplace, though it had quite a convincing façade of wood behind the open-mesh screen to complete the illusion.

The restaurant menu was limited to one or two options for dinner, recipes from the period augmented for the modern palate; Bridget was actually quite grateful because it meant there was less of a crisis in making a decision. She swore Mark was relieved for the same reason.

"I want to start with some Negus, and a bowl of white soup," she said decidedly.

"Oh," said Mark. "Is _that_ what you were trying to make on your birthday?"

"You're trying to get yourself banished to the—" She broke off abruptly; she was about to say 'sofa,' except that at that moment, her gaze fixed on a portrait that was so uncanny as to be eerie.

"What is it?" Mark said, alarm in his tone.

"Look at that painting!" she said, and he turned to follow her gaze. "That man looks just like you!"

"He does not," Mark said, turning back to face her.

"You can't tell me this isn't part of your—oh my God!" she exclaimed, interrupting herself, noticing the prominent sign beside the portrait. She could only imagine what it said… that it was the very man from Austen's work, himself. "I wonder if he's your ancestor!"

"Bridget, I've told you," he said. "He's not. We're not related. Now decide on what you're having for a main course."

She was doubtful that two men could look so similar, have the same name, and _not_ be related, but she let the matter drop, and it was for the best she did, because the server came around to take down their order. Instead of opting for Negus and white soup, Mark went with red wine and brown onion soup.

"And for your main course, sir, ma'am?"

Mark smirked. "It would behove me, I think, to try Mr Darcy's Favourite Beef-Steak Dinner."

"Oh, yes, I'll have that too," Bridget said with a wide grin.

The drinks and soup arrived very quickly; Bridget looked to Mark to see the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"What's so amusing?" she asked.

"You," he said. "I'll never understand your fascination with that book."

"_'That book'_?" she repeated, affronted. "Mark Darcy, it is much more than just 'that book.' There's _so_ much detail of everyday life, especially the lives of women, that you hardly know you're getting a great history lesson until you're done with it! Plus it's a great love story and a testament to holding out for the right person—I mean, they were hardly each other's first choice, were they?" At his amused expression, she added, "And don't look so patronising."

"I'm not at all," he said, holding up his hands in an 'I surrender' posture. "I'm simply considering how many times I've heard this impassioned speech, and how many more times I'll hear it during the course of our married life together." He then reached across the table to take her hand. "I'll probably never properly understand, but I find you adorable about it all the same."

"It is not 'adorable' to appreciate literature—"

"I suppose 'adorable' is not the best word," he interrupted before she could build up a full head of steam about it. "I'm happy that it makes you happy, darling."

"I enjoy it, but it doesn't make me happy," she said, turning her hand to hold his. "_You_ do, you daft cow."

Again Mark chuckled; they had done a lot of laughing at dinner, and she loved it. "In case you haven't noticed by now, darling," he said, "I can hardly be considered a 'cow.'"

The Apple Snow dessert on the menu proved too great a temptation despite being devoid of chocolate, and proved itself worthy of ordering. By the time they left the restaurant, Bridget felt pleasantly squiffy from the alcohol, and totally, happily full from the meal. "It's a good thing we only planned to go back upstairs tonight," Mark said, a little squiffy himself as they walked with his arm around her shoulders.

"Good thing."

Still in that happy mood, they lit the fireplace (gas, as predicted). Mark insisted on doing it, "Lest you light the suite on fire, darling"—then proceeded to drop the still-glowing match onto the floor. Thankfully it fell on the stones, missing the carpet, but not by much. Bridget began laughing so hard she collapsed and fell sideways upon the bed.

The bed sank beside her; one hand reached for her waist, and the other, her thigh; she shrieked at the light tickle just under her ribcage. "Darling, darling, shhh," whispered Mark as he pushed the hem up and slid his hand along her smooth skin. "They're going to think I'm murdering you in here, when nothing could be further from the truth."

She didn't shriek anymore, but still had plenty of cause to hope the neighbours could not hear. Everything about the evening—the food, the décor, the flicker of the fireplace in an otherwise unlit room—was utter perfection, and they still had the whole of the weekend in front of them.

She sighed and turned over to push herself up, in order to brush her fingertips along Mark's brow, then kissed the tip of his nose. A low rumble of laughter came from him as he pulled her close and kissed her again.

"Can you imagine?" she said with a sigh, feeling her lids droop with sleepiness.

"Imagine what, darling," he said, close to her ear.

"What it might have been like to live in this house, all the time, in the height of its splendour in Jane Austen's day… oh, it must have been heaven…"

With that, secure in Mark's warm embrace, she drifted into slumber; the last thing she remembered was feeling a tender kiss in the centre of her forehead.

…

It seemed only the matter of a moment until it was morning, which was heralded abruptly by the sound of a man's voice, sharp and shocked, awakening her from sleep:

"What the deuce?!"

She squinted, hardly unable to believe her eyes: standing there at the side of the bed, hands on hips, Mark had somehow acquired the most ridiculous sideburns, and was dressed in what looked like an old-fashioned chemise and… breeches? It was then that it dawned on her what he must have done and burst out laughing. "Did the hotel people lend you that getup? Do they keep fake sideburns around for just such an occasion?"

Mark looked perplexed. "I do not know what you mean by all of this, madam, but I demand you explain your presence in my bed at once."

She laughed again. "Stop being silly and come back to bed."

"I will do no such thing," he said sternly, his brows furrowed.

Bridget couldn't help her continued laughter. "You're not doing very well at the impersonation, you know."

"Madam," he said darkly. "You are seriously trying my patience. If you do not explain yourself at once—"

He stopped speaking when she pushed the bed covers back and rose, then approached him. He seemed speechless, staring at the cotton dress she still wore from the night before.

She swore she saw a blush tint his cheek; he also averted his gaze away from her. "For God's sake, cover yourself. You are attired most indecently."

_Blimey_, she thought. _He's taking this very seriously._

At that moment something in the periphery of her vision caught her eye. It was the pitcher and washbasin on the bureau. It was still blue and white, still beautiful, but no longer covered by a protective case. Without thinking she went directly to it and picked it up in her hands.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"How on earth did you get them to take off the cover?" she asked, setting the pitcher carefully back into place, then looking to him. He was still focused on a point downward, and not at her. "This is an awfully good prank, love, but you can drop it now."

"If anyone should be accused of perpetrating a prank, it is _you_, madam," he said. "You have somehow managed to slip unnoticed into the house and into my bed chamber—and now you are referring to me in a way that is far too familiar. You also have yet to explain your presence, and I suggest you do so at once, or as magistrate I shall be forced to take action."

"Oh, 'action,' eh?" she said. "Enough is enough, really. Let's just go back to bed and pretend…" She trailed off as her eyes caught a glimpse out of the window. She walked even closer to it.

"I implore that you stay away from the window," he commanded.

She paid him no heed and pushed aside the curtain enough to look outside. She drew her brows together as she gazed out the window. It was a beautiful day outside; blue sky, sunny, dotted with cotton clouds… and not a vehicle to be seen.

Or another human being. Or nothing but rolling green landscape as far as the eye could see: the gift shop was gone, the fences were gone, the car park was gone and the road was no longer paved.

She felt her hands begin to tremble of their own accord. It was one thing to dress in funny clothes, put on false sideburns and get the staff to remove the protective case from the washing pitcher. It was altogether different to have reset the very roads, removed all the autos and…

"Oh, crikey," she muttered as an old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage appeared from around the bend. She turned away from the window to see he'd come very close, and with no hesitation she reached up and tugged at the sideburn, expecting it to pull off, possibly with a little resistance.

Not only did it not come off, but it was very clear they were all too real.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said in his alarm, taking a step back, his hand raising to cover the offended cheek.

_The sideburns are not false at all,_ she thought again; _How had he managed to grow a full set of sideburns overnight? But no, that's not possible. They must be really good fakes—because otherwise it means—_

"I'd really like to know myself," she said, looking up into his eyes, which she realised were not the warm brown of Mark's, but more of a sort of speckled hazel; her vision went blotchy then the world went swirly as she fell forward in a faint.

…

He caught the lady as she collapsed. It would not have done for her to hit the floor and injure herself, further necessitating that the doctor be called out to the estate…

He still had no real notion of what had happened. He knew only that there had been a strange woman beside him in bed this morning, that he had believed himself dreaming until he realised she was all too real. He had quickly vacated and dressed without the assistance of even the valet before attempting to wake her, because he did not want anyone to find her in there with him.

He laid her on the bed, pulling the blankets back over her. He then rationalised what must have happened: during the night a carriage must have come requesting assistance for this obviously unwell lady, who did seem a bit disorientated just then and was speaking in riddles. She must have been placed in a nearby room, and in her fever had wandered out and into his own room by accident.

Maybe he had been too harsh with her, especially if she were ill.

Right now, he reasoned the best thing to do was to leave her to sleep.

Not two paces from his room he encountered his valet. The man looked horrified, not at his master's appearance, but that he had not been present to attend to him. "Sir, if I had known you had risen—"

"It is quite all right, Cooper," he said quietly. "Tell me. Did we have a carriage stop here during the night?"

"A carriage?" Cooper repeated. "No, sir, we did not. If we had you would have been awakened."

"Of course," he said, walking on towards the stairs to the main floor, his thoughts again in a whirl: from where did the young woman come? He did not recognise her as being from the village; surely he would have recalled seeing someone with such bright flaxen hair and blue eyes.

He stopped walking again. What if—against his character, against all good judgment and sense, given the presence of his younger sister—his cousin had brought this attractive young woman into the house for carnal pleasures? He would need to find his cousin at once.

As he descended the grand staircase, the object of his search passed through the foyer and they saw one another at approximately the same instant. "Darcy, there you are," said his cousin. "I need very much to speak with you privately."

"And I, with you, Fitzwilliam," he said. "Let us go into the billiards room—we are sure not to be disturbed there."

The room was indeed empty and, most importantly, free from the presence of Darcy's younger sister. "So who is she?" Fitzwilliam asked, a slight grin adorning his features.

This question caught him by surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I rose early for a turn about the garden and upon my approach back to the house I saw a blonde lady peering out what I know to be your bedchamber window."

Darcy was nonplussed, eventually saying, "I thought she was there at your behest."

Fitzwilliam laughed. "You thought I obtained a young lady for you?"

"No, I thought you had secreted her into the house for your own… pleasure."

"Darcy, you wound me," he said, placing his hand to his chest, over his heart. "I would never do such a thing, particularly with Georgiana present."

Darcy sighed in his relief, though was no closer to solving this mystery.

"So where did she come from?" asked Fitzwilliam.

"That," said Darcy, "is an excellent question." He ran his hand down over his face. "I should at least have a maid look in on her—we can say we found her wandering on the grounds. Bring her a proper set of clothes and some food. Maybe she will be more coherent then."

With this agreement in place, the two of them exited the billiards room; Darcy turned at the sound of his valet's voice. "Sir," he said. "I have been looking in earnest for you. I went into your chamber and…" His expression said it all: confusion, surprise, shock.

"I found her wandering on the grounds early this morning," said Fitzwilliam quickly. "We put her into Master Darcy's room until we decided what we should do."

"Oh, oh, certainly sir."

"Will you have Mrs Perkins bring a little something for her to eat, and perhaps one of the maids can procure a dress for her? I believe she's about the same size as my sister. One of her dresses will do."

"Yes, sir. I shall take care of this myself with utmost priority."

After Cooper had departed, Darcy suggested they have some breakfast, too, so they went to the drawing room, where an assortment awaited them. Darcy partook of some tea, toast and pound cake, while Fitzwilliam helped himself to the ginger cake. As they began to eat, and after assuring they were alone, Darcy said to Fitzwilliam, "I wonder if she requires medical attention. She spoke most oddly before she fainted. I placed her back on the bed and that was when I came to find you."

"I think we should wait and see what the outcome is once she has dressed and had something to eat."

Darcy nodded. "I agree." He sipped at the tea, then added thoughtfully, "Whoever she is, she is not of low birth."

"How do you know this?"

"I had occasion to see her hands closely," Darcy said, thinking back to when she had tugged on his facial hair. "She is wearing what appears to be a very expensive ring and an unusually fine chain around her neck. Also, her hands do not show the signs of someone who works with them in a field or a kitchen; she has a lady's hands and an excellent complexion, fair and unblemished, so she is not one who toils under the sun. She also possesses a fine, full set of very good teeth."

"Very good teeth," repeated Fitzwilliam with a smile, then a light laugh. "You sound as if you are describing the purchase of a horse."

Darcy laughed too. "What I mean to say is that she clearly has the means to care for them." He also thought about her assertiveness in addressing him, and that she went so far as to touch him. "She was also not intimidated by me, as a country girl often is."

At this Fitzwilliam hooted a laugh. "Yes, they are usually terrified of you, Darcy."

…

At the sound of the door opening, Bridget roused to wakefulness to see the room bathed in sunlight. Remembering the earlier encounter—_Dream_, she thought; _must have been a dream_—she sat up quickly. Instead of Mark coming in the room, however, it was a maid done up in traditional servant attire, and she bore a tray of simple, period-looking breakfast food. She wondered if her comment to Mark the night before in addition to all of the liveried servants and maids was what had triggered her dream—it would certainly explain it, anyway. "Good morning, ma'am," said the maid with a smile and a nod of her head.

"Good morning," Bridget said hesitantly. Where was Mark?

The maid set the tray down and left the room.

"Thank you," Bridget called belatedly, then looked at the tray. She guessed it was supposed to be period in state and presentation, which she appreciated—ginger cake that was delightfully spicy; milky, sweet tea; and a rich, perfectly done slice of buttered toast that looked like it was made from homemade bread. She didn't know where Mark had gone off to, but she hoped his breakfast was just as good.

She was just taking in the last of her tea when the door opened again. Once more, it was not Mark; it was another maid, carrying—

"What is this?" she asked. It was a beautiful dress in the style of the period.

"Mr Darcy asked this be brought to you, ma'am," said the maid.

She said nothing because she was speechless. Mark had gotten her a fancy period dress? Was today a 'spend the day in period garb' or something, and she'd missed the sign? The maid remained, though she said nothing more; Bridget wondered if she expected some kind of gratuity.

"I'm sorry; was there something else?" Bridget asked.

The maid looked uncomfortable. "I was waiting to see if I was needed, ma'am, regarding the fit of the dress."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She set the tray aside and pushed back the blankets, padding over to the maid. "Shall I just take this into the loo, then?"

"The… the what, ma'am?"

"You know, the toilet."

The maid continued to look at Bridget in a stupefied manner before she said, "I can just help you right here, ma'am, since you have no maid at present."

"Right here, in the room?" Bridget was shocked that the hotel maid would be offering to do this. She looked around for her bag, but didn't see it. "I don't even have pants on!"

"Pardon?"

"You know, knickers." No recognition from the maid. "Underwear. Undergarments."

"Oh, yes," said the maid. "I can find something suitable."

"Please do… what's your name?" asked Bridget.

"Edith, ma'am."

"Please do, Edith."

As Edith left, Bridget stripped hurriedly out of her own dress and slipped into the period one. It seemed so authentic yet so new and fit wonderfully.

Edith returned and seemed surprised that she was dressed. She had a pair of what looked like pyjama bottoms, another dress and a corset. "Ma'am," she said. "You'll want to put these on first."

With a sigh, she realised there was no getting around needing the maid's assistance so she took the dress back off, eliciting unusually confused looks at the sight of her Wonderbra; the corset (or 'stays' as the maid called them) alone needed a second pair of hands. _What is Mark's game with this weird dressing-up business?_ she thought. _What is with this creepy maid that insists on helping me dress? And what in hell did he do with my bag?_

"What are those things?"

"Pantalets, ma'am." Edith handed them to her, and she held them up for inspection. She thought, at first, that the pantalets were just like pantaloons as they were similar in design, but she quickly realised there was one important difference: they were in two pieces, open up the middle much (but not exactly) like cowboy chaps. She smirked a little. _I'm sure these are eminently practical in period_, she thought, _but Mark's a naughty, naughty man._

She felt like she was an onion by the time it was all said and done: chemise, stays, pantalets, petticoats… and all of it before the actual dress was on.

"Shall I pin up your hair, ma'am? Oh." Edith glanced to the side. "I am sorry. I thought you had already washed up."

"I don't know where my bag is," she said. "I haven't been to the loo."

The expression on Edith's face reminded Bridget of the sort one would see when speaking to someone who spoke no English. "I brought you some hot water." She pointed to the bureau.

To the pitcher and the basin, which was not covered by its protective case.

Bridget felt her head go swirly again, and she sat on the bed. _Not possible, not possible that this is real,_ she thought. _That I can be in Regency England._ "Yes," she said quietly.

"Ma'am?"

She looked to Edith. "Yes, you can pin my hair up."

Edith smiled. "Then you can join Mr Darcy downstairs."

_Mr Darcy?_ thought Bridget, starting to feel a bit panicky. _Mr Darcy?! If not Mark, then the sideburns guy… _the_ Mr Darcy?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Mr Darcy's Bed**

Words: 30,808 in six chapters

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Credits: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 2.**

Mr Darcy watched as the maid, Edith, came down the grand staircase all alone. Puzzled, he asked, "Is everything all right with our guest?"

"Oh, yes, sir. She is fed, dressed, and is just about ready to come down. She just wanted a little time alone before she did." Edith paused. "If I may speak freely, sir?"

"By all means," said Darcy.

"She is very peculiar, is she not?" she said. "I helped her with her hair and have never seen a lady's hair cut in such a fashion—the most unusual jewellery—and such an odd way of speaking! From where did she come?"

"I hope to find out for myself," Darcy said. "Does she seem well?"

She lowered her voice. "She does not. She seems very confused."

"I _am_ confused."

Mr Darcy and Edith both looked towards the top of the staircase. There, in one of his sister's blue dresses, stood the stranger; her hair was pinned up in a reasonable facsimile of a lady's hairstyle, though slightly untidier for the places that seemed determined to come loose. Even still, she looked quite lovely for the conundrum she continued to pose: How had she come to be in his house, in his bedchamber?

She took the stairs carefully then stood before him; the necklace he had only barely noticed before was on display, framed by the dress' collar. He forced himself to look into her eyes, which were pale blue and shining in her curiosity.

"Still," she said, "I sort of rather rudely interrupted your morning, screwing up your whole day, and I'm sorry. For everything. Especially for the… you know." She mimed pulling at his facial hair.

Darcy found himself unexpectedly and momentarily speechless. Who was this woman who spoke with a common tongue but so clearly was not common? "I do not believe we have had the pleasure of an introduction," he said. He bowed slightly at the waist. "Mr Darcy, master of Pemberley."

She looked a bit abashed. "Um," she said, her voice shaky as she offered a clumsy curtsey. "I'm Bridget."

Once again he was taken aback. Introducing herself with her Christian name only?

"Jones," she added hastily, flushing a deep crimson. "Miss. Miss Bridget Jones."

Unmarried? He was surprised, given how handsome she was, that she was not yet spoken for. "How may we get in touch with your family? From where did you come, and how did you come to be at Pemberley?"

She seemed to give her response great consideration before speaking at last. "I'm not sure."

"You are not sure," he said hesitantly, "how to get in touch with your family? Or how you came to be here?"

"Yes," she said, then amended, "I mean both."

Darcy decided not to press for details. "Perhaps you have injuries that might have caused this condition. I shall send for the doctor."

"No, that isn't necessary."

"I must insist," Darcy said with finality, then turned to the maid, who still stood there, quiet as a church mouse. "If you would please see that Dr Whitman is brought around?"

"Yes, sir," she said, curtseying briefly before she dashed away.

"Oh, Fitzwilliam! Why did you not tell me we had a visitor?"

From behind him, Darcy's worst nightmare come true: his sister, Georgiana, who would undoubtedly find this situation, this unusual young woman's mysterious appearance, upsetting. They turned to face her. "Miss Jones," said Darcy. "May I present my younger sister—"

"Miss Georgiana Darcy," interrupted Miss Jones in a strange, almost breathless voice.

His sister was clearly astonished. "Yes, that is correct," she said. "How on earth did you know? Have we been introduced previously?"

"I think we must have been," said Miss Jones with a hesitant but warm smile. "Your name, er, just popped into my head."

Georgiana smiled broadly and turned back to her brother. "How is it that Miss Jones came to see us?"

"She was in some distress," Darcy supplied, "and will be our guest for the immediate future."

"Oh, how lovely!" said Georgiana, reaching to take Miss Jones' elbow in a friendly manner. "You must meet our cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam."

Together they went into the sitting room. Darcy followed directly behind and marvelled at how quickly his normally reticent sister had warmed to the newcomer. Fitzwilliam rose at the appearance of the two women, and judging by the expression on his face, he was surprised at Miss Jones' appearance contrasted with the figure he had briefly spied at the window. "Miss Jones, this is my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam." Fitzwilliam bowed.

"And Fitzwilliam," said Darcy. "Allow me to introduce you to our guest, Miss Bridget Jones." She curtseyed.

Fitzwilliam said. "Miss Jones, a pleasure. From where have you travelled to join us?"

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but Darcy spoke first. "Please, refrain from too many pressing questions. She has been experiencing loss of memory about from where she comes, and why she is in Derbyshire. Dr Whitman has been called to come and examine her."

"I am sorry to hear. Come and have a seat."

"Thanks," said Miss Jones with another winning smile. "It's a great pleasure to meet you too."

There was a pause as they clearly tried to think of something to initiate conversation that circumvented potentially problematic personal questions.

"So," said Fitzwilliam at last. "Do you play pianoforte?"

"Chr—Crikey, no," she said.

"How about singing? Do you sing?" asked Georgiana excitedly. "Perhaps you will be so good as to sing for us!"

"Oh, you don't want me to sing," she said. Miss Jones looked around to each of them. "The last time I sang in public, a baby popped a dummy in my mouth to shut me up."

The three of them stared at her.

"A dummy?" asked Georgiana.

"Oh, sorry, a pacifier," said Miss Jones.

There was a moment of absolute silence, during which Darcy thought his sister must have been rendered speechless with horror, but no; instead, she laughed heartily and looked fondly to her new friend. He could not help but remark that Fitzwilliam seemed quite diverted by the comment, too. "Surely it is not as bad as that."

"I beg you, please take my word for it," said Miss Jones. She looked down, smoothing flat the fabric of her dress over her knees. "I have to thank you for the loan of this dress. It's really quite beautiful."

"It looks so very charming on you," she said. "Oh! And I have the most beautiful dress you can wear to the ball."

At this Miss Jones' eyes flashed up in what Darcy might have described as terror had she been a man. "Ball?"

"Yes," said Georgiana. "If you do not care for the one I have in mind, you may choose another. It will be such a lovely time."

Composure recovered, Miss Jones offered a smile. "Yes, I think it will be. Thank you so much."

After some time, the maid Edith appeared at the door. "Mr Darcy, sir, the doctor has arrived."

"Ah," said Darcy. "Very good. Georgiana, would you take Miss Jones to your boudoir for a consultation with the doctor?"

"Of course, dear brother. Come with me, Miss Jones."

Georgiana rose, as did Miss Jones, and together they departed the room.

After a moment of contemplation, his thoughts were interrupted by Fitzwilliam's voice. "She is certainly an interesting lady." He looked to his cousin. "She does seem a lady, though the most self-deprecating one I have ever met."

Darcy thought about what he said, and he was right. "Do you agree that she is not from the village, then?"

"Absolutely," said Fitzwilliam.

"I feel as if we ought to arrange a searching party. If she is not from the village, then perhaps she wandered here from a carriage in distress after some kind of mishap. There may yet be others in need of assistance."

"I agree. It would be a prudent thing to do."

"It still puzzles me exceedingly," Darcy said in a low tone, "how she came to be in the house in the first place."

_And in my bedchamber_ went unspoken between them.

The doctor returned presently, a steely grey-haired gentleman with tidy spectacles and a travelling bag. "Dr Whitman," said Darcy. "How is Miss Jones?"

"Oh, she is in quite good health," he said with a smile, "though it is quite evident to me that she is deeply distressed about something, and she says the most unusual things. What has she told you of her arrival to Pemberley?"

"Not much," said Darcy. "She does not actually seem to know."

"That was the impression I got," he said. "That she is completely unaware. Something has happened to her memory, and though I could discern no injury to the head, it is worrying."

"What do you mean, precisely?"

"She seems perfectly lucid, but seems baffled by ordinary objects," said the doctor. "And…" he hesitated. "I do not know if this is related, but when we entered the room, her hand went to a spot on the wall just inside the door before she quickly took it away… as if it had scalded her."

Darcy drew his brows together. Very odd.

The doctor continued: "She should definitely be kept under close observation, and if physical symptoms manifest, be sure to send for me immediately."

"Certainly, and thank you for coming so promptly," said Darcy.

With that the doctor quit the room to be shown out; Darcy began to pace. The doctor had confirmed his own feelings on the stranger, and it left him a little unsettled. There was something unusual about her; it was not that she seemed suspicious or insane, just… _different_. Despite appearing in his bedroom unbidden, despite her openness with him in such an intimate setting, she had not even seemed unmaidenly. She had not screamed and covered herself in shame and embarrassment as other ladies might have done, but neither did she expose or flaunt her body as a common prostitute would; she was simply comfortable with herself, with who she was, as a nymph would be. Her plea to return to bed seemed neither lascivious nor vulgar, but rather, all too innocent, as if she were unaware of how a man might perceive her. He reasoned she had reverted to such a childish mental state because of her malady, and certainly posed no danger to his sister in terms of being a poor influence.

The fact he could not quite put his finger on her disposition bothered him, because he often prided himself on being good at accurately discerning people's intentions, judging their character—

"She is quite the puzzle, is she not?" Fitzwilliam asked, once again interrupting his thoughts.

"An excellent way to describe the situation," said Darcy, shaking his head. "I cannot reconcile her."

"She must have some kind of pedigree, cousin," said Fitzwilliam. "After all, even if they had not been formally introduced, how could she have known of your sister in such a familiar way? Georgiana has had a very guarded life."

"Very true, and yet, I have not known her before today," Darcy said.

"I am very glad to know her now."

Darcy turned to see his sister, wondering how much she had heard. "I am glad to hear it."

There was a sparkle in her eye he was surprised to see. "It is so wonderful to have another lady in the house," she said, "with a _sunny_ disposition, and who is not looking to make herself mistress of Pemberley."

Darcy thought it a very perceptive observation by Georgiana, and knew she referred to his friend's sister, Miss Caroline Bingley. "So you do like our guest?"

"I do," said Georgiana. "Very much."

Darcy did not say so aloud, but he too found himself charmed and intrigued, despite her odd ways.

…

The humiliation.

All her life Bridget had thought it would be charming, be _romantic_, to live during the Regency era; everything lit with candles and ladies in beautiful gowns playing tinkly piano…. Instead? No running water! No shower! _And peeing in a vase!_ she thought. The horror of it—and even worse still, having to pretend to know what to do. Georgiana Darcy must have thought she was an idiot.

And she'd tried to tear a sideburn off of Mr Darcy. _The real Mr Darcy._ Not something one could say that often, if ever. Her grasp on reality seemed tenuous, at best; he probably thought she was completely mental.

At least she'd had the sense to bite her tongue when it came to the doctor's visit—not volunteering to undress as she'd been about to do. She would have to be even more vigilant—stop herself from reaching for a light switch that didn't exist, or forget to curtsey—because if she made a big enough slip, they could well lock her up in the attic like a mad Mrs Rochester… and, with a deepening despair, she realised that any reference to a mad Mrs Rochester would mean absolutely nothing to them as Charlotte Brontë hadn't invented her yet.

Now she sat in the room that had been designated as her own, adjacent to Georgiana's, ostensibly to have a lie down before luncheon. She was grateful for the clothing she had been given to wear, though with all the different pieces, different layers upon layers, she'd be grateful to return to plain old knickers and a miniskirt. Even granny knickers.

She turned then reclined back onto the pillow; she didn't feel tired at all, though, and idly considered checking her phone for messages before remembering where she was. She chuckled to herself—talk about no signal!

Bridget must have dozed, after all, because a knock on the door roused her. "Come in," she said automatically, half-expecting in her drowsy state for it to be hotel room service, but as she pushed herself up saw it to be her solicitous new friend, Georgiana Darcy, and she came immediately back to her surroundings. _Not weird_, she thought, _to have made a friend of someone from two hundred years ago I know only as a fictional character. Not weird at all._

"Sorry to wake you," said Georgiana—_Must remember to call her 'Miss Darcy,'_ Bridget thought, as she'd noticed it was proper to say. "Luncheon is ready, and I would like it very much if you joined me in my rooms."

"Oh, of course," Bridget said. "Where are the… gentlemen?" she asked, biting back "boys" at the last moment.

To Bridget's surprise, she turned pink. "They have decided to mount a search party," she said; Bridget was perplexed by both the words and the sheepish tone. "If there were more to your party that you cannot remember, they wanted to render assistance as soon as possible."

"Oh," she said. She rose from the bed, looking for all the world calm, while inside feeling an irrational panic; there was no such party to be found. What possible explanation could she provide to alleviate their worry? Bridget accompanied Georgiana to the boudoir, or day room as she'd previously discovered, and felt a sense of peace wash over her as she realised she wouldn't need to provide an explanation if she merely told the truth about how she'd come to be there: she honestly did not know.

They had a light lunch of cheese and bread, drank water with lemon; it was delicious, but Bridget couldn't help thinking she really wanted a pastry. Or a pastry and a cappuccino. And definitely a cigarette!

"How are you feeling after resting?"

Bridget looked quickly to Georgiana. "Oh, much better, thanks." She looked down to where she had folded her hands on her lap. "Sorry to be such a bother."

"What do you mean?"

"Showing up out of nowhere, disrupting your day…" Bridget trailed off.

"You may be disrupting my day," said Georgiana with a genuine smile, "but it is a most welcome disruption! To be perfectly honest—" Her voice dropped down, as if someone else were close enough to overhear. "—I am so very tired of practicing the piano, and my French lessons, and without Mrs Huntsley around… I am very glad for the company." Bridget thought she should know who that was, and considered asking, but Georgiana hastily added, "Oh, she is my companion, and she has gone to visit a sick sister in Bristol for a fortnight."

Bridget smiled, trying to remember if this was the companion that had colluded with Wickham—and realised it was not. Of course, it might have even been that the life of these real people was totally different than the book's portrayal of them—surely Jane Austen would not have had that much intimate access to the family. "I'm sure her sister appreciates it a lot."

Georgiana screwed up her face. "Do you mind my asking you a question, as a friend? I mean, we are friends, are we not?"

"Of course we are, and of course I don't mind," said Bridget, though she thought she might have minded a great deal depending on what the question actually was.

"Well… I do not wish for you to be offended," she said timidly. "It is just… I have never heard anyone speak like you do, except for some of the folks in the village."

"What do you mean?" Bridget asked; she wondered if she had accidentally used a strange piece of slang.

"I mean…" Georgiana actually blushed. "'Don't'? 'I'm'?"

It took Bridget a moment to realise to what it was Georgiana was referring, and when she made the connection, she wanted to smack herself hard on the forehead. Regency folks thought of contractions as 'common' and 'vulgar'; people of their class did not use them. "That must seem very odd to you," she said, suddenly afraid she'd insulted Georgiana most egregiously. "I—I am sorry. I guess I am just used to a more relaxed way of speaking—because I always seem to have too much to say and am too eager to get it out. You are right, though; it is a terrible habit and I should not persist. I would hate for it to reflect poorly on you and your noble family." Quickly she added, "I mean, not literally noble, right?"

At this Georgiana burst out with a little laugh. "You are so diverting," she said with a smile. "Now. What shall we do? Perhaps… oh! Perhaps we can choose something in which you can dress for dinner."

"We just had lunch…eon," Bridget said smoothly.

"Oh, I know," she said, "but it may take us some time to look at my dresses."

As it turned out, Georgiana was not joking. She had a dressing room that rivalled the size of Bridget's own flat (perhaps a slight exaggeration, but not by much), and her collection of dresses was jaw-dropping. "We appear to be close enough in form that you can easily wear my clothing," Georgiana said.

"Thank goodness for that," said Bridget quietly. What would she have done without Georgiana's generous wardrobe?

"My brother is far too kind to me," Georgiana said. "I believe I have dresses from him that I have never even worn before." She smiled, looking to Bridget once more. "I believe the colour blue favours you best. You look very lovely in that one."

As if forgetting what it was she was wearing, Bridget looked down to herself, and needed a moment to recall she was not actually in a costume for fancy dress. "Thank you," Bridget said. "Do you have any other blue dresses?"

Georgiana smiled broadly. "Oh, indeed. Come, let us find you something pretty!"

It took them some time to look through them all; so long, in fact, that Georgiana's maid expressed muted surprise when she entered to advise that it was time to dress for dinner. Not that looking through her wardrobe was an arduous task. They had quite a jolly time taking about the different dresses (and expressing opinions on the tailoring or even the fabric). Bridget was stunned to see they had picked out enough dresses to last her at least five days, if the schedule by which they seemed to change was anything to go by. Most of the frocks were some shade of blue.

"Your brother must think you look nice in blue," said Bridget.

"I think at the very least, he prefers it over other colours," she said. "Of course, I do not think it suits me at all, hence the reason so many dresses have been made and not worn."

Bridget wondered about her comment—of course they were made for her; didn't exactly have Debenhams, did they?—as Georgiana's maid assisted the both of them in dressing and tended to their hair. When Georgiana dismissed her, the maid took her leave. Bridget couldn't help admiring herself in the mirror; the dress was beautiful, and the stays were flattering to both her figure and her chest. Wistfully she thought of Mark, and how he might have approvingly gazed upon her in it, slipped his hands about her waist, maybe even have wanted to shag her in it—

"So, what do you say?" asked Bridget, forcing herself from that train of thought. "Shall we go down?"

For a split second Georgiana's reflection in the mirror looked a little horrified, and Bridget turned, wondering what she'd said wrong. There was then a knock on the door, and Colonel Fitzwilliam's voice from beyond it: "I have come to escort you down at your brother's request."

Mentally Bridget hit herself hard on the forehead. In this era, ladies didn't go to dinner unescorted. "I… heard his approach," Bridget supplied.

Georgiana looked instantly at ease and called out, "You may enter. We are ready."

He opened the door and smiled broadly, gracing them with a look of delight, one that was not lascivious in the least. "Indeed you are," he said appreciatively. "Both of you. I am only sorry that there will be no one to see my arrival to the table flanked by two such lovely ladies."

"My brother is hardly 'no one'," teased Georgiana.

With Bridget on one arm and Georgiana on the other, Colonel Fitzwilliam strode down the hall looking like the cat that ate the canary. Bridget was determined to make a better impression on the formidable Mr Darcy this time.

…

If his ears had not been playing tricks on him, Darcy would have sworn he had heard the two of them, his sister and the stranger who had appeared from nowhere, laughing in excessive diversion.

He had been passing by Georgiana's dressing room intent for his own room to dress, when what he thought was the sound of girlish giggling drifted out from beyond her door. He was pleased, he supposed, that Georgiana had made a friend of Miss Jones, but with that pleasure came a fear that she would become too attached, since Miss Jones would, sooner or later, have to go back to the place from where she had come… wherever that happened to be.

After the search they had mounted had frustratingly turned up naught, Darcy had asked his cousin to head up to escort the ladies down to dinner, the time for which would be approaching before they knew it. Darcy had been intent on writing a letter to his good friend, Charles Bingley, to discreetly enquire as to whether or not he had heard any stories of a missing society girl, for he was certain that her family must have been worried sick for her. At the chiming of the clock, as he finished his missive, he put the pen down. Dinner would be imminent.

He folded the letter, addressed it, then sealed it, and went to the foyer to place it with the other post when he heard the quiet chatter of his sister. He turned and saw his cousin, his sister, and Miss Jones about to descend the grand staircase, three abreast.

He knew the dress Miss Jones wore, one he'd had made for his sister with some fine linen he had acquired in London, which had come from Ireland. Miss Jones looked absolutely beautiful in it; the dress flattered her form in every way, including the very generous bust with which she had been endowed. There was something else about her, something he had not consciously noticed until that moment when he saw her walking beside his sister: she had a very different way of moving, much more fluid and natural. Almost… sensual. How on earth had he not heard of her in society? Was it possible she had not yet debuted?

When Miss Jones met his gaze, he saw her mouth quirk in a smile, and he realised how improper it was to be looking at her for so long. He hoped his features had not betrayed him. When they got to the bottom, Darcy said to Miss Jones, "Allow me to escort you to the dining room." He held out his elbow for the guest, and she accepted it with a demure expression on her face.

During the earliest courses of dinner, Darcy observed that Miss Jones was extraordinarily reserved; whilst the three relatives conversed, she seemed content to observe. When the main course of pan-roasted partridges arrived, she seemed taken aback.

With a look of concern, Georgiana asked, "Whatever is the matter?"

Miss Jones looked up, trying hard to quickly hide her expression of surprise. "Nothing," she said. "It's just… I feel like I'm about to eat my pet budgie."

"Your… your pet what?" asked Georgiana, who was baffled.

"Oh, er, you know. Parakeet. Small tweety birds."

At this Darcy was taken aback. He had heard reports of the small Australian bird that was called thus, but that a lady had not only known of it but had had one as a pet? It seemed incredible.

"These are perfectly all right to eat," assured Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Cook prepares the finest game birds in all of Derbyshire… and I can guarantee that they were never a pet to anyone."

"Sorry, sorry," she said, suddenly blazing bright red in her embarrassment. "I certainly did not mean to suggest they were unacceptable." She seemed reluctant to turn her gaze towards Darcy, but did at last. "I hope you are not offended."

"Not at all," he said a bit curtly. Perplexed, maybe, but not offended.

After a few silent moments, Fitzwilliam spoke in his usual bright, sunny tone. "Perhaps after we finish our meal, we can show you to the library. I expect you like very much to read as all accomplished young ladies seem to do, and the library here is unparalleled."

"Oh, _yes_," she said.

"Have you read any good books lately?" asked Darcy.

He expected her to compose a thoughtful answer… not bring her hand to her mouth in an obvious attempt to suppress laughter. "Um…" she said after composing herself again. "Sorry, I was… just remembering a funny book I had read once. But for what I have read recently…" She paused, then went on. "Goethe, yes. It's a very good story, very well-written and thought-provoking; the main characters, a married couple, have a child, but instead of looking like either of them, it looks like their respective lovers. Sounds absolutely silly when I describe it like that, because that's biologically impossible, of course, that love alone could forge a human being into existence. But it's very good," she concluded, then said again, correcting her contraction, "It is very good."

He was dumbstruck, as was his cousin; his sister looked surprised and (unfortunately) intrigued. "Goethe?" asked Darcy at last. "That sounds like _Die Wahlverwandtschaften_, which was just published in Berlin last year. Is that available in English already? Or do you read German?"

Miss Jones looked momentarily stunned, and she bit her lower lip. "I…"

"And I should hardly think such a book appropriate for young ladies," he added.

"Have you read it?" she countered.

"It has only been published in German, in Berlin," he said. "I am conversant in French and Latin. So, no, I have not."

"Then how do you know if it is appropriate or not?" she asked.

The bluntness of her question took him aback. He merely said, "Your description suggests is not."

Georgiana said with enthusiasm, "It sounds really—"

"Georgiana," Darcy said brusquely.

"I apologise," said Miss Jones. "I didn—did not mean to cause strife. And Mr Darcy, I did not mean to disrespect you. I hope you are not offended."

Truthfully, he had been a little offended, but her look of mortification suggested it had been unintentional. "It is quite all right," he said, a small smile finding his features; he needed to show a greater kindness, as she was not quite herself at the moment. "You may count yourself among friends here."

"I certainly hope you do," said Fitzwilliam with a grin. "I enjoyed that interaction very much."


	3. Chapter 3

**Mr Darcy's Bed**

Words: 30,808 in six chapters

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Credits: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3.**

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_, Bridget thought; _That was close._ Leave it to her brain to remember Goethe's _Elective Affinities_ was published in 1809, but to forget that 1809 was the German edition—and the English version wasn't published until decades later. Then she felt a bit panicked again: was there even a Germany as she knew it in 1809?

Her little fiasco, however, did help her to narrow down to which year she'd apparently been flung through time: if that book had been published "last year," then it must have been 1810. She had to keep on guard, though, and hope that she didn't accidentally predict something that hadn't happened yet.

"I think," said Bridget, "that we are indeed all friends here." To Colonel Fitzwilliam, she said, "I enjoyed it too." Then she beamed her brightest, most winning smile on the both of them, and to her relief they offered friendly (if slightly more reserved) smiles in return.

At the conclusion of dinner, Mr Darcy led the way to the library. Bridget did not know exactly what she was expecting, but a collection to make the British Library jealous was not quite it. "Wow. It's quite beautiful in here," she said, then cursed herself for the habit of contractions… though at least she hadn't said it was "fucking amazing."

"You can see why it is one of my favourite places to be," said Georgiana.

"Absolutely," said Bridget. "Is it all right to just… wander around?"

"Of course you may," said Mr Darcy. "Some of Georgiana's favourite novels are along that wall there."

Her eye, however, had already been attracted to a set of volumes on a nearby shelf. Several books on battles of the ancient world, and another analysing the battles of the American Revolutionary War. She thought instantly of Uncle Geoffrey and his war tomes, and could not help but think that men never changed. Not really.

"I hardly think that one would be of interest to you," said Mr Darcy pleasantly. She picked up one about the battles of ancient Greece and began thumbing through, amazed by the detail on battles she'd never even heard of.

"War," she said gloomily.

"As I said."

She closed it, then returned it to its place. She'd forgotten that England was at war, probably at that very moment. "I find it a bit absurd, even useless, reading books about war," she said.

"Not at all useless. A familiarity with famous battles throughout history is strategically important," offered Colonel Fitzwilliam.

"Our cousin is likely to be called back to battle, if Napoleon persists," said Georgiana brightly.

"What I mean," said Bridget, "is that how books paint this glorified picture of war being so noble, exciting, and almost… _fun_… when nothing could be further from the truth. Tragic to lose practically a whole generation in such a dirty, bloody business… and the ones who return are left with memories they can never…" She trailed off, realising that, by the looks on all of their faces, she had possibly taken the expressing of her opinion a step too far. Shit. "So," she said, brightening her own voice, "where are Miss Darcy's favourite novels, again?"

"Oh!" To Bridget's surprise, Georgiana came forward to clasp her hand in both of her own. "Did you lose a brother to war?"

"What? No," she said, then amended, "at least I don't think so."

"Forget all about battles, and I can show you all of my favourite novels," Georgiana said with a smile, tugging at her hand. She was not surprised to see that they were typical novels of young ladies of the era, silly romances, Gothic novels, certainly nothing that she had ever read in her English classes at Bangor. Only the name of Frances Burney was distantly familiar to her; Jane Austen had unfortunately not yet appeared on the scene to elevate the quality of popular literature. She ran her finger over the spine, trying to recall how Burney had related to her uni studies.

"Oh, you would like that one, I think," said Georgiana. "Miss Burney is a wonderful writer. You may take it from the library to read, if you wish."

"I think I would like that a lot."

"Sister." It was Mr Darcy. "May I impose upon your opinion in the parlour?"

Georgiana pardoned herself, and as she stepped away, Bridget pulled the book from the shelf, entitled _Cecilia_, and opened it to inspect the pages. She realised Colonel Fitzwilliam was still with her when he said, "Oh, that looks quite interesting."

She grinned, looking up to the colonel. "No need to lie," she said. "I think you would rather face a firing squad than be forced to read this stuff."

To her surprise, he chuckled. "You are quite a perceptive young woman, Miss Jones," he said. "Though firing squad may be a bit extreme."

It was then she recalled how she knew the name: it was thought Frances "Fanny" Burney had inspired Jane Austen to pursue her writing. While she had studied Austen quite thoroughly in uni, she had never had the chance to read Burney's works. The book she held in her hand had been a particular favourite of Austen's, she realised with a thrill. "If you had to pick one author," she said, "you could do worse than Miss Burney." After a pause, she added, "Or so Miss Darcy says."

They continued to browse the shelves together, moving quickly from what was very evidently Georgiana's collection, to subjects considered more proper for men. Her eye was caught by David Hume's _A Treatise of Human Nature,_ and she chuckled; she'd remembered that hideous volume being on a syllabus for one of her uni classes; she'd been very excited, expecting that it would be forward-thinking and Nelson-Mandela-y, only to face vast disappointment in that it was very difficult for a modern woman to take seriously.

"What do you find amusing?" asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

"The most boring thing ever written," she said, lazily perusing the pages, wondering if it would improve now she was older; it did not seem to have done so. "Before I had even gotten halfway through, I wished I were dead."

The colonel did not reply, and when she looked to him he seemed to be gobsmacked. _Shit_, she thought. _Ladies probably were not allowed to read this sort of thing, either. Was probably forbidden, even._ She was thinking of what to say when she no longer needed to:

"You… must have been raised in a very liberal family," Colonel Fitzwilliam said, recovering himself, even smiling a little. Then he looked chagrined. "Oh, but perhaps you cannot recall that."

"Memory is a strange thing," she said, thinking quickly. "To remember a book but not the circumstances under which it was read." She closed the book, returned it to its place on the shelf and picked up _Cecilia_ again, just as Mr Darcy and his sister returned.

"Oh, have you found something?" Georgiana said, then saw the volume that she held. "Excellent choice! I hope you will like it. It is very exciting."

"I think we have had enough excitement for one day," said Mr Darcy in that cool tone he seemed to be fond of using. "I think it is time for the ladies to retire."

"Retire?" asked Bridget, astonished.

"Yes," he said. "Georgiana's maid will be pleased to attend to you."

"But it's only eight in the evening," Bridget said. "It's—it is not even dark yet."

When Mr Darcy smiled, it was not one of fondness, but one of amused condescension. "Georgiana, kindly take Miss Jones upstairs," he said in a commanding voice.

Naturally, being instructed in such a manner infuriated Bridget beyond all sense, but she bit on her lower lip. She couldn't insult the man. He had to power to turn her out into the stable if he wanted to. "May I at least bring the book with me, to read in bed?" she asked sullenly.

"That… is acceptable," he said.

…

Finally, thought Darcy as he watched the two ladies quit the room, she was exhibiting something approaching normal behaviour for a young lady; he was reminded all too keenly of Georgiana's night-time protests, though admittedly his sister was a much younger age at the time.

"Today has indeed been full of excitement, has it not?" asked Fitzwilliam. "I am tempted to retire to my bedchambers as the women have done. But first, I think some brandy."

Darcy agreed, and the pair of gentlemen partook in the customary post-dinner brandy they had earlier eschewed; neither cared for cigar or pipe just then. "A bit too exciting," said Darcy, continuing the previous conversation. "I really am in a quandary with what to do with Miss Jones. What if Bingley reports back that no such young lady has gone missing?"

"I suppose at that point you shall have to spread the word to neighbouring magistrates," said Fitzwilliam.

"I suppose I shall," Darcy said quietly, more to himself than anything.

"She is certainly an unusual lady," said Fitzwilliam. "Do you know she appears to be familiar with Hume?"

Darcy struggled to think of whom Fitzwilliam could be talking. Then he remembered where the two of them were when he and Georgiana had entered the library again. "You do not mean the philosopher, surely?"

"I do," said Fitzwilliam. "What do you make of that?"

"I… do not know what to make of that," he said. "Although I must admit there is a part of me that is not in the least surprised."

Fitzwilliam nodded. "And Goethe. I would not have thought a lady knew such books existed." He sipped his brandy. "What a peculiar lady."

"A peculiar education, anyway," he said. "What kind of family produces a lady like that one?"

"Perhaps her father is far too permissive," guessed Fitzwilliam.

"He would have to be," said Darcy. "I expect he would be a bit on the eccentric side. I expect… they are two of a kind, and if there are multiple children, she is his favourite and regards her as he might regard a son. And what of her mother?"

"I wonder if there is no mother present; perhaps she has already died."

After a thoughtful moment, Darcy disagreed. "I think she is there, but is content to allow her daughter free rein and to allow her husband unusual rearing techniques. Otherwise, a nanny or a nurse would have a different sort of influence on her."

"Ah, yes, of course." Fitzwilliam's features clouded over. "But what of her comments on war? Do you suppose she is the daughter of an officer? Or perhaps it is that she has been abroad, and has seen things that young ladies do not normally see?"

"It is possible," Darcy said, "though it is equally possible her opinions are a result of other volumes she has read."

"You forget, cousin, that most modern books tend not to opine that war is traumatic and devastating—rather, glorify it as necessary."

"I did forget," he said. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, then drew from his own brandy. He could not make sense of her, not at all.

…

"I do hope you are comfortable."

Bridget was clad in the dress in which she'd fallen asleep after dinner with Mark—it had been laundered by the staff, undoubtedly with querulous looks and much confusion—as well as the pantalets for warmth. The fireplace was crackling and the maid had just removed the bed warmer. She had a candle by her bedside as well as the Fanny Burney book, though the toll the day had taken on her was starting to catch up to her, despite the relatively early hour.

"If you need anything," continued Georgiana, "just ring the bell."

With that Georgiana left, closing the door behind her. The stillness and the quiet was disconcerting. She slipped beneath the sheets—pleasantly heavy, pre-warmed, then, as she sat up against the pillow, she reached for the book and opened it for a little reading before bed.

The candle was not casting a particularly bright glow over the pages, and as intrigued as she was by what she read of the book, it soon became too dim even with the candlelight to read. She closed the book (very carefully—she could not get over thinking of the book as an antique), set it on the bedside table, then blew out the candle.

With the curtains drawn, the room seemed plunged into darkness; at least it did until her eyes adjusted to it. The fireplace very dimly lit the room in a warm orange, and the crackle and faint yet pleasant smell of the burning wood soon lulled her into a satisfying slumber.

She then found herself wandering through the murky hallways of the stately home; she could hear the cacophony of distant voices elsewhere in the house, and out of curiosity she decided to home in on the sound. Oddly, the house seemed more convoluted and confused than she recalled but she doggedly persisted in her search. At long last, what sounded to her like a party was just a turn away, and she rounded the corner triumphantly only to be greeted with gasps of alarm and surprise. That was when she looked down to find she was dressed only in her domestic science apron from school—

Her eyes flew open; the edges of the drawn curtains indicated the time of day was barely the break of dawn. There was a moment of discombobulation where she forgot where she was—At home in her flat? Minibreak with Mark?—before her eyes adjusted and she remembered where she was, in a bedroom just near Georgiana's. She took in a deep breath, then exhaled and closed her eyes again; it was probably too early to rise. After tossing and turning a bit, she realised that she wasn't going to be able to fall back to sleep. She pushed herself upright then realised in horror that she really needed to relieve herself. She thought hatefully of the vile chamber pot, but was comforted somewhat by the thought that at least it was only a pee she needed desperately.

After a good long sigh she resigned herself to the inevitable and after that relief, returned the vessel to its place; she was considering reading in lieu of knowing what proper protocol was—surely she shouldn't venture out of the room for something to eat—when the door opened without so much as a knock. It was Edith, the housemaid. She seemed a little surprised that Bridget was already awake and sitting up.

"Just coming to light the fire, ma'am," she said.

"Thanks," said Bridget. As the maid went on to her duty, Bridget recalled the difficulty she'd had getting dressed the day before even with the maid's assistance. "When you're—you are done, will you help me dress? I mean, if you are not needed elsewhere."

Edith looked shocked; Bridget supposed it was not her usual duty to dress the ladies, that yesterday was a fluke. "I will fetch Miss Darcy's lady's maid," she said. "I believe Miss Darcy is still asleep." She then turned to draw back the drapes, revealing a bright blue, cloudless sky, before departing.

The room quickly warmed with the rekindled fire; in a few minutes, the more familiar lady's maid came in to help with dressing as she had for dinner the evening before. With Bridget's input she gathered together the dress and all the other bits together for dressing.

"What's your name?" asked Bridget as the maid tied up the stays.

"Elizabeth, ma'am."

"Really?" Bridget asked in her surprise, perhaps a little too eagerly. Elizabeth looked startled. "Sorry. It's such a nice name. Thanks." After a pause, she added, "I'm Bridget. Miss Jones."

"Yes, ma'am."

As Elizabeth brought her each individual item in which to dress, it felt very odd to Bridget to not have any conversation at all, so she felt pressured to speak. "Thanks for your help with this," she said. "Never would be able to do this on my own."

"That is what I am here for," said Elizabeth modestly.

With the application of the last layer of clothing, Bridget inspected herself in the mirror and nodded approvingly. "Thank you."

"Shall I pin your hair, ma'am?"

"Oh, yes, quite."

Bridget took a seat before the mirror, and Elizabeth deftly did her hair into pretty little twists. "I believe breakfast has been served," offered Elizabeth as she took a step back to allow Bridget to stand. "Miss Darcy tends to rise later in the morning, however, so for now, you will only have the company of Mr Darcy."

_Oh, great_, thought Bridget, forcing a bright smile across her lips; it wasn't that she disliked the man, but the stick up his arse was ten times any stick Mark might have ever had, not to mention she found the legendary literary figure slightly scary. "And Colonel Fitzwilliam?" she asked.

"That I do not know, ma'am."

Bridget took in a deep breath, then exhaled. _No time like the present_, she thought, _plus, I'm ravenous._

…

It was a peaceful morning for Darcy. He was partaking of breakfast alone in the drawing room with some tea, some bread and jam, as he perused the most recent edition of the _London Gazette_. He was reading and considering another piece of bread and jam when motion out of the corner of his eye caused him to glance up and away from the periodical.

It was Miss Jones. He rose to greet her. "Good morning," he said. "Please, join me."

"Thank you," she said; he saw her gaze lazily take in all that was on offer before she reached for a brioche, and on this she spread a healthy dollop of jam.

"Some tea, or hot chocolate, perhaps?" Darcy asked as he took his seat again. "They are on the table beside you."

"Ooh, hot chocolate," she said earnestly, as she turned to pour a steaming mug of the rich drink. She sat down had a bite of her brioche, then took a sip of the drink. "Oh, blimey, this is marvellous."

Such a curious manner of speech she had. It made him wonder all the more from which family she had come. "I am glad you approve."

"Oh, definitely."

"And how does Cook's brioche compare to your family's?"

"Difficult to say," she said. "This is so very rich and wonderful. Reminds me of brioches and other pastries I've had in Paris." As he reeled from this nugget of information—She had been to the continent? When, exactly, and whom with?—she looked over to the table, laid out with breakfast fare. "What else did I see over there? I thought I smelled ginger."

"Yes, I do believe there are ginger cardamom honey cakes—"

"Really?" she asked, her bright eyes going wide. "Oh, my God. Sounds heavenly, but if I keep going at this rate, I'll put on three stone."

"Stone?" he asked, confused by the reference; surely she did not mean merchant or trade weight. "Put them on where?"

At this she laughed a little and said, "Never mind." She then took another bite of the brioche, making an approving sound as she did.

"And a pleasant morning to you, cousin." It was Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Oh, Miss Jones! I did not see you there at first."

She swallowed the bite she'd taken then smiled. "Good morning, Colonel."

"Good morning," he said to her. "Oh, my favourite honey cakes. Excellent."

As Fitzwilliam scanned the breakfast table, Darcy was moved to join him so that he might speak with a lower tone in confidence. "Do you know," Darcy said quietly, "that she has just told me she has been to Paris?"

"Is that so?" said Fitzwilliam with a smirk. "Was this before or after her trip to the moon?"

"I am not speaking in jest," said Darcy. "She has compared Cook's brioche to the pastries of Paris."

Fitzwilliam appeared to mull things over before speaking at last. "This lends credence, then, to the possibility that her father is an officer," he said.

Darcy had to admit that this supposition had merit.

At the sound of the rustle of paper, both men turned; Darcy was shocked to see Miss Jones perusing the paper with not just curiosity, but avid attention and interest.

"Miss Jones," said Darcy, loudly and sharply, visibly startling her.

"Yes, sorry, what?"

"My _Gazette_."

"Oh, I am _dreadfully_ sorry," she said, closing it, then folding it and rising to hand it back to him. "You weren't finished?"

He could barely believe he was hearing this. "I was indeed not finished," he said, "and I believe that the _Gazette_ is not suited for the eyes of young ladies."

"Not suited? Are you—" she asked, part surprised, part… well, almost offended. But then she offered a smile. "Sorry. I did not mean to cause offense in reading your _Gazette_."

"It is quite all right," he said, though he could not quite get over the sensation that she was not sorry at all that she had actually read the periodical.

"May I ask a question of you?" she asked, in her primmest, most proper voice.

"You may," Darcy said, though felt he might live to regret allowing it.

"What exactly is it, in your opinion, that young ladies _are_ allowed to do? I mean, of things that are actually intellectually stimulating?"

Darcy heard Fitzwilliam stifle a chuckle. Darcy then opened his mouth to reply but found himself in the novel situation of being completely at a loss for words; his salvation, however, arrived at that moment in the form of his sister, coming down for a little breakfast.

"Good morning!" she said brightly, then looked to all three of them in turn. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," said Darcy with finality, turning back toward the table in order to feign interest in another piece of bread or a honey cake. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very well indeed," she said. "Miss Jones? Were you comfortable? Elizabeth tells me you were up extraordinarily early."

"Well, I would not say 'extraordinarily,'" said Miss Jones; he turned to see a little smile. "I was very comfortable, though. Thank you."

"And breakfast was to your liking?" Georgiana asked as she delicately picked a honey cake up.

"It was fantastic," Miss Jones replied. "This hot chocolate is astoundingly good."

"I am glad you like it," she said. "It is my favourite, to tell the truth."

The rest of the morning meal passed without further disruption, and at that time, Georgiana suggested, with such pleasant weather to be had, that they plan for an extended walk around the gardens. Miss Jones went positively radiant with delight and agreed that it would be a fantastic way to spend the afternoon. Georgiana invited the men to join, but Fitzwilliam demurred, though suggested their stroll conclude in the gazebo for luncheon.

After taking care of arranging for said luncheon, Darcy went to take care of some business for the estate, but after no more than twenty minutes found he was unable to focus on any of the work he needed to do. He could not quite pinpoint the exact reason, and decided that taking out his favourite horse for a little run might be just what he needed to clear his mind. He knew that his distraction was fuelled by the stranger who had quite literally appeared from out of nowhere; he hoped he would hear soon from Bingley, and wondered what he might do next if there was no news to be had from London.

…

When Bridget returned to her room and closed the door behind her, she let out a great long breath. She'd had a marvellous afternoon, excellent lunch, beautiful day, but it was exhausting to constantly keep herself in check; if it wasn't to keep from saying too much, or the wrong thing, it was to stop using even bloody contractions. And the walk out of doors—well, the pantalets accounted for a bit of fresh air going where she was unused to fresh air going, which was distracting.

Now, alone in her room, begging off for a while with a headache (too much sun, she'd told them—despite the bonnet and parasol), she could sprawl out on the bed and have a bit of a lie-down. Maybe read some of that Fanny Burney book. Being alone reminded her that she had no cigarettes, nor any prospect for any. And having a great big glass of wine with dinner was right out.

She took the book and opened it to read, but despite her best reading efforts she dozed off anyway, waking only at a rap upon her door with an announcement that it was time to dress for dinner. She closed the book, stood, smoothed her dress down and told Elizabeth to enter.

Dinner, as it had been the night before, was almost something out of a film. The food, though a bit odd for her modern tastes, was quite good, and conversation was fascinating to listen to, as historical subjects were discussed in the context of being actual current events, which of course they were; talk of France and the possibility of further skirmishes, about which Georgiana seemed interested to hear more, and on which Darcy quickly put the kibosh.

Then came the customary separation of the sexes; the ladies moved to the drawing room so the men could enjoy their port and cigars. After some persuasion, Georgiana took to her pianoforte for a spirited performance of a piece of music that seemed faintly familiar to her. Then it occurred to her: it was once used as a jingle for some baby products. Powder, lotion, she couldn't quite remember, but the inane words that went with it came back like she'd only heard it yesterday, and quite without conscious thought she began to sing along.

Georgiana stopped playing suddenly. "Why, Miss Jones! Whatever are you singing?"

"Oh," said Bridget. "Uh, just something silly from when I was younger. It just…." She trailed off.

"That is lovely though!" Georgiana exclaimed. "The music spurred your memory! I shall play some more, if you will sing."

Bridget agreed, and when they began again, the extent of the silliness of the tune became ever more obvious—chubby baby cheeks, red apples and cherries, and other nonsensical comparisons and connections—which then further sent the two of them into peals of laughter.

"My, my!" came a male voice. Bridget turned to see that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Darcy had both come to the entrance of the room. The colonel looked beyond amused, while Mr Darcy looked typically unreadable. "That is quite the lively tune! I beg that you sing it again."

She looked between the two gentlemen, then to Georgiana, who was still smiling. Georgiana nodded, and brought her fingers up, poised to play again. Bridget felt her own skin flush in embarrassment.

"Well, all right then."

She began to sing again, though this time with a quaver in her voice; the presence of the formidable-looking Mr Darcy was making her more nervous than before. When she finished, she did a little curtsey, and both of the gentlemen began to politely applaud.

"That was quite diverting!" the colonel said with a jolly grin. "Wherever did you learn that?"

Her gaze was unaccountably drawn to Mr Darcy. "Must have been from my girlhood."

"You do yourself no credit, Miss Jones," said Mr Darcy. "That was a perfectly accomplished performance. Kindly share another with your receptive audience."

Accomplished? She tried her best to keep from chuckling; just how awful were most Regency girls, anyway? "Thank you, sir, but I must decline," she said. "I am afraid my repertoire at the moment is rather limited to a song about babies and fruit." For a moment Mr Darcy looked completely taken aback, and she realised that he probably did not often face refusal. He must not have, in order for the expression to escape and be seen. Quickly, she added, "I am sure your sister would be more than happy to accommodate the request. I can… turn the page, if she needs."

"I would be happy to play," Georgiana said, "but I have learnt so many pieces that you need only to sit and enjoy."

Georgiana skilfully played three or four more tunes, each one as beautiful as the last to eager applause from each of them, until she rose and curtseyed. "I am afraid I must further deprive you," she said with a smile. "I am tired and I believe I shall retire for the evening."

"You were so gracious to play as much as you have," said the colonel. "I can hardly feel deprived."

"Good night to you, dear sister," Darcy said, rising to receive a quick embrace from her. "And to you, Miss Jones."

This was Bridget's abrupt clue that she was not expected to stay. "Yes," she said. "Good night, gentlemen." She did a quick curtsey and followed Georgiana out of the room, and as she did she happened to catch the clock—barely half eight. _Oh God_, she thought in exasperation; _Guess I'll read._

Bridget dressed for bed in her white dress and took the pins from her hair to brush it out; the fire was lit in the hearth, and with the candle burning bright she dug into the Fanny Burney book. She read it voraciously, barely coming for air until the end, when she closed it and sighed with satisfaction.

Bridget wondered exactly how much time had passed; an hour at least, she reasoned, and probably two. She was still wide awake, and, reasoning that everyone else had likely gone to bed by that point—it was full dark outside—she decided to venture down for something more to read. _If I don't get lost in the process_, she thought ruefully.

She wrapped the loaned shawl around her shoulders, stepped into the loaned slippers, then slowly pushed open the door. There was no one about, but it was dark in the passageway, so she took the candle for light. Creeping along and feeling quite like a burglar, she descended the stairs into the foyer; she shivered with the abandoned feel of the place in the dark, lit only by stray moonlight from outside and the feeble light of her candle.

She came closer to the library and to her befuddlement discovered that there was a light emanating from within. She stepped in, thinking idly that someone had left a lamp lit by accident, and it was only too late that she realised that someone was there using that light.

"Oh," she said, mortified. He looked up, obviously startled, and the dog slumbering at his feet looked up with piqued interest. "Sorry to disturb you."

"Miss Jones, whatever are you—" It was then she noticed, at about the same time he remembered, that he was smoking a pipe. He looked at it, then at her. "I am sorry, I was not anticipating—"

"It's all right," she said, taking in a deep breath. "It hardly bothers me. I think it smells nice, actually."

She might as well have announced she had a second head sprouting from the middle of her back. "You have had occasion to smell a pipe before?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, loads of times." After a beat, she asked, the craving for nicotine overriding her good sense, "May I try?"

"Absolutely not," he snapped. "Please, return to your room immediately."

It was her turn to be startled. "Sorry," she said meekly. "Have just always been curious." Suddenly afraid she had offended him beyond repair, she said, "I am, you know, really, really grateful for your hospitality. Not sure what I would have done otherwise. Thank you, a million times over."

He seemed to have forgotten his directive for her to leave. "You are very welcome."

"I was just coming down for another book to read. I'll put this one back, shall I?"

"You may leave it on the table."

"Oh, sure." She looked down at the attentive pet. "What a handsome dog you have there." She set the book and candlestick down, then crouched to get closer to him, holding out her hand.

"I beg you not touch him," Mr Darcy warned. "Ajax is a fierce hunter and aggressive with strangers."

The dog sniffed at her fingers, then bowed his head down. She pet his head. "Oh, yes, he's terrifying," joked Bridget. The dog was soon flopping over and down onto his back, and she scratched his belly, sending his hind leg to kicking in pleasure. "Ajax?" she asked, thinking of the cleanser. "Does he do the washing up, too?"

"Pardon?"

She chuckled, amusing herself. "Never mind." She stood up again. "Just find a book, and will be off and out of your hair."

"Out of my hair?" he asked, puzzled, as she walked by him.

"Just a figure of speech." She found something that looked interesting, and reached to pull it out. Darcy spoke up.

"That shelf is really not for young ladies."

She turned and stared at him, feeling like literally banging her head on the shelf. "Fine." She turned around to the permitted shelf, and with some amusement spotted _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ by Ann Radcliffe, by which she knew Jane Austen was inspired for her own _Northanger Abbey_, and she plucked it from the shelf. "I'll take this one, then."

Darcy nodded his approval. "You should return to your room now."

She knew a dismissal when she heard one. She offered a smile, and did a little curtsey, then gathered up the new book and her candle. "Goodnight."


	4. Chapter 4

**Mr Darcy's Bed**

Words: 30,808 in six chapters

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Credits: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

After two days with his mysterious guest, Darcy felt no closer to an answer as he had the previous morning. His questioning had, perhaps, been too subtle in trying to determine whom among his peers may have had a daughter or sister not only familiar with books typically forbidden to young ladies, but one whom felt free to smoke his pipe in her presence. The answer he kept coming back to, of course, was none of them.

A slight whimper from his side brought his attention to Ajax, who looked attentively at the door through where Miss Jones had quit the room; he felt betrayed even by his dog. "Quiet, Ajax," said Darcy in a low tone, then, after a moment of consideration, patted the top of his head.

Darcy was not sure if he hoped that Bingley would have more information, or that he would not.

…

The fourth morning with Miss Jones brought word at last from Charles Bingley; his preliminary queries had turned up no results, but he concluded with the assurance that he would continue his inquiries, even though he was not sure what more could be found in London, and would give Darcy any more information he had turned up once he had arrived to Pemberley for the ball. As he closed Bingley's letter, Darcy decided it was time for the next step: to alert the other magistrates nearby, and penned a series of missives for delivery to them including a description of her physical appearance, her clothing and distinctive jewellery. He also stated that in the interim, until her family could be found, he would appoint himself her guardian and protector. He summoned Perkins to take the letters; the butler would then delegate and get the letters to the different neighbouring magistrates.

With this task accomplished, he thought he might head towards the drawing room in search of some luncheon when his sister came in to the study looking a little distraught. "What is it?" he asked, alarmed.

"Fitzwilliam, I am unsure what to do," she said. "Do you think it is all right to receive the ladies with Miss Jones here? Do you think it might upset her to be thrust into the midst of yet more strangers?"

For a moment he had no earthly idea to what she was referring, but then remembered that the vicar's wife, Mrs Watson, had houseguests that his sister had arranged to have visit this afternoon for entertaining over tea, two ladies from East Hampshire. "I think it should not cause her distress, but you may wish to ask Miss Jones directly."

She smiled and looked a bit sheepish. "Of course you are right. I shall go and ask directly. I am just so nervous. You know how I am."

He did know: a bit shy and unsure of herself, when she had no reason to be so. "Everything will be fine," he said in a consolatory tone. "You worry too much when it always turns out to be a success."

"May I ask you a favour? Will you be so good as to look in on our group?"

"Whatever for?"

She clasped one hand over another in front of herself. "In case I need help."

"I would be happy to do so," said Darcy, "but I hardly think you will need help."

"I appreciate your confidence in me," said Georgiana. "I will feel more confident knowing you are there."

With that she quit the room, leaving Darcy to wonder about Miss Jones; it was true he had every confidence in his sister, but was not sure that Miss Jones was up to unfamiliar visitors, despite any assurance she might deliver. He was immediately grateful he had made a promise to look in on the group, and thought it wise to find his cousin to get him to accompany him.

…

"Visitors?" asked Bridget as she picked at her lunch.

"Yes," said Georgiana. "You are not required to attend to them, as this engagement was made long before you… arrived. But if you feel up to the social interaction, you are more than welcome to join the group."

"Are they friends of yours?"

"I have never met them myself," Georgiana confessed. "They are visiting some neighbours of ours, the vicar and his wife, and expressed a desire to see the estate. I told the Watsons I would be more than happy to host their guests, but truth be told I am a little nervous."

Bridget was also nervous about interacting with more people of the era—as if they would instantly be able to see through her as someone she wasn't—but wanted more to support the one friend she had here in the past. Surely she could keep her mouth shut, drink tea and observe. "I think you are a very good hostess," said Bridget, "and I would love to come."

"Splendid!" said Georgiana with a broad smile.

"Will they be here soon, then?"

Georgiana said, "Oh no. They will arrive in time for afternoon tea."

"Oh." Bridget strained to recall at which time that occurred; they seemed almost to go from meal to meal with nary a breath in between. "We still have time, then," she said, then ventured to ask, "Surely the tea has already been arranged?"

"Oh yes."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" offered Bridget.

"I would love it if you would accompany me to the garden to pick some flowers," said Georgiana.

The pair of them donned bonnets and gloves (but not before Bridget nearly ran out into the great outdoors without them), fetched a basket and went out into the sumptuous flower garden to choose vibrant, fragrant buds to decorate the drawing room. Upon their return, they freshened up, making sure their hair was still securely pinned and had some lemon water to drink before they went to wait for the arrival of the guests.

They did not have to wait long: Mr Perkins announced the arrival of the guests, and at the sound of the names of the two ladies, Bridget was sure she had misheard.

"Miss Darcy," said Perkins, "Mrs Watson, Miss Austen and Miss Jane have arrived."

Georgiana rose; Bridget followed suit. "Please do show them in."

He bowed at the waist then disappeared; Bridget considered the names he'd just given and felt her heart start to race; surely it was a coincidence. Momentarily the butler returned and from behind him appeared first a brunette lady with plain features but with a posture and bearing that spoke of her stature as the vicar's wife; next came a tall, dark-haired woman with vaguely familiar features; and behind her…

Bridget had seen the famous portrait enough times to know instantly that it was no coincidence at all; the second woman to enter was slightly taller than the first, but with lively dark eyes, chestnut curls framing her slender face, the pale biscuit-brown undertones of her complexion. This woman was otherwise that portrait come to life. Bridget had to actively fight off the impulse to bring her hands to her mouth, gasp, or otherwise react.

"Miss Darcy," said the first woman to enter. "Allow me to present my dear friends to you: Miss Cassandra Austen, and Miss Jane Austen."

All heads turned to Bridget as an involuntary squeak issued from her; she blushed furiously. "Forgive me," Bridget said.

Georgiana looked momentarily concerned but, blessedly, not angry or offended and then she continued, addressing the visitors. "A pleasure to meet you both," she said, then turned to Bridget. "This is Miss Bridget Jones, who is staying with us for a while. Miss Jones, this is Mrs Watson, wife to our dear local vicar."

All three visitors looked to her and smiled. "How delightful to make your acquaintance," said Mrs Watson. "From where do you hail?"

Before Bridget could speak—not that she had the nerve at that moment to speak in front of a literary legend—Georgiana did. "Miss Jones has not been entirely well, and has been experiencing some difficulty with her memory."

"Oh, I am so sorry to hear that," said Mrs Watson.

"Were you taken with illness?" asked Cassandra.

Bridget swallowed hard. "I was not," she said, being extra careful not to use contractions in her nervousness, though her voice still quavered a little. "I am not actually sure what happened that caused me to be here. Some kind of…" She paused. "I am not sure. Maybe a great shock."

"It is very clear you do not wish to speak of it," said Mrs Watson, "so we shall not press you to do so. Miss Darcy, do tell me how you have been enjoying that beautiful pianoforte that your brother gave you."

From there the conversation moved from the pianoforte to discussion of local news—who was due to have a baby soon, who had announced engagements—and as it did, Bridget contented herself with observing and listening. Very quickly she noted that Jane was doing the same with a wry little smile curling the corner of her mouth.

It was Mrs Watson speaking beamingly of her husband that really piqued Bridget's attention. "He really is a jewel amongst men, and I could not be happier," she said. "He is so attentive and caring towards me, and towards the parishioners as well." This cause Bridget, quite unbidden, to wonder what the intimate moments between a vicar and his wife were like back in these times: did they read passages from Fordyce's sermons in sexy voices as foreplay?

Bridget guessed that they had not been married long—and it came up in conversation that it in fact had only been about three months—and thought the clearly biased praising of Mr Watson was a bit sweet. However, as the clock passed the fifteenth minute of Mrs Watson boring on and on, extolling the virtues of her husband, it became not so much sweet as it was annoying, even a bit Smug-Married.

"I bet he walks on water, too," Bridget muttered quietly to herself.

The quirk at the corner of Jane's mouth lifted a bit, and her eyes seemed to sparkle all the more. "I do not suppose she would tell we ladies if he has changed water to wine," she said confidentially to Bridget.

"Oh, I wish," Bridget replied with a laugh, evoking a light chuckle from Jane.

"Of what are you speaking, sister?" asked Cassandra.

"Nothing of consequence," said Jane placidly. "Just sharing with Miss Jones a small observation I have made in the past, about how some women in love seem to lose the ability to think critically."

"It is very good that this has not happened to me," said Mrs Watson. Bridget had to bite on her lower lip to keep from laughing aloud, and she swore she saw Jane do the same, which thrilled her.

"Ladies. Good afternoon."

They all turned to see Darcy and the colonel had come into the room. From the small smile on Colonel Fitzwilliam's face suggested that he had overheard at least part of that conversation between Bridget and Jane.

"Mr Darcy," said Mrs Watson fawningly, with a big smile.

…

Darcy, along with Fitzwilliam, engaged in pleasantries with the ladies but it became very quickly apparent to him that his sister had everything under control in the visit with the vicar's wife and her guests. It did not escape his notice that Miss Jones paid a great deal of attention to Miss Jane, and clearly it did not escape Miss Jane's notice, either. He cast his mind back to make inevitable comparisons with Bingley's sisters, two women who would not acknowledge the existence of anyone with lesser social consequence than themselves, often to the point of overt rudeness. Miss Jones, however, seemed not to be so hampered, treating everyone kindly, including spinsters of meagre means from the south of England.

After a decent interval he and Fitzwilliam said their goodbyes and as they departed the front room, Darcy asked his cousin to please join him in his study. "Whatever for?" asked Fitzwilliam. As he closed the door behind the pair of them, Darcy explained the news he had gotten that morning from Bingley, and the letters he had written and dispatched to the local magistrates.

Fitzwilliam looked taken aback. "I cannot believe his queries turned up nothing," he said. "I am not sure I have much more faith that the local magistrates will succeed where Bingley has failed. If she were a local lady, surely we would already be acquainted with her. At the very least _you_ would."

"I know," Darcy said. "It is confounding." In his frustration he began to pace the room, ending up in front of the detailed framed map of the British Isles that hung on the wall of his study. He brought his fingers up to his chin as he thoughtfully perused the map. Had he not been approaching this from the correct angle? What if he should have been considering a possible destination, instead of a possible point of departure? His gaze skimmed over the pen and ink landscape before stopping quite abruptly just over the Scottish border.

It was something he had not considered up until then: had she been en route to one of the bastions of quick Scottish weddings, the likes of Gretna Green, either with a man or intending on meeting him there? Perhaps that was why she had been so silent on the subject; perhaps it was not so much that she did not remember, but did not wish to share her intentions and bear the brunt of heavy disapproval.

"What are you thinking?" asked Fitzwilliam.

Darcy explained his thoughts, but added, "I am probably wrong, as it seems unlikely a lady such as herself would willingly participate in something so disreputable."

"Perhaps she was herself deceived," he said.

"That seems more likely, but I shall not consider it further without proof," Darcy said. "I shall not expose her to the possibility of ruin to her reputation and her prospects in life."

Fitzwilliam nodded. "That does seem prudent. But what of the rest of it?"

There was, at that moment, a quiet rap on the door, before Perkins entered and asked for a word with Darcy. Seeing the quick glance the butler gave to his cousin, and knowing the man would want a clear sign to continue in present company, Darcy said, "You may speak freely before the colonel."

"Thank you, sir," he said, handing Darcy a stack of letters. "I waited until there were responses from all of the magistrates before coming to you, sir."

Darcy opened and read each one, and found every magistrate to whom he had sent a missive had advised that they did not know of any young ladies meeting the description of Miss Jones, and that they approved of the notion of becoming her guardian. "I am not entirely surprised, but they do not know who she is, either. Perkins, thank you." Darcy leaned heavily onto his desk. "It is also decided that I take up the mantle of guardian for Miss Jones," he said solemnly. "Please bring Miss Jones to me, Perkins, when Georgiana's guests have taken their leave."

"Yes, sir." With that, Perkins left the room.

"It is very noble of you to do this for her," said Fitzwilliam.

"It is as much for me as it is for her," he said. "I wish no ill suspicions over my intentions towards a pretty young lady who is of no relation to me, who resides under my roof."

"I suppose you cannot be too careful."

"No," said Darcy. "I cannot."

…

"Mr Darcy would like to see you, Miss Jones."

Bridget had the distinct feeling that she was being called before the headmistress at school, or, in this case, headmaster. "Right now?" she asked from her seat in the sitting room; the guests had departed and she sat now reading a book and enjoying a refreshing lemon water.

"If it is convenient," said Mr Perkins, the butler, suggesting to her in a rough, cool tone that despite whatever she was doing, _now_ was convenient.

She closed the book and set it aside. Georgiana smiled and said, apparently reading Bridget's thoughts, "I am sure it is of no consequence."

"I hope you are right," she said.

…

The quiet knock at the entrance to the study announced the arrival of Miss Jones. "Come in," he said, and the door swung slowly opened to reveal her.

"Sorry, I got a little lost," she said. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, thank you," he said. "Please, come in. Close the door behind you." He smiled at her look of apprehension. "You probably wonder why I have asked you here."

"Uh, yes," she said.

"I have sent inquiries to London and out to the magistrates in neighbouring areas and no one can seem to find a trace of… _you_. I mean, where you were born, where you live, where you came from, and what brought you to Derbyshire."

She looked a tad startled. "You have been trying to dig up information on me?"

"In a sense, yes," he said. "And I have not found a thing. So I must take it upon myself to name myself as your guardian."

He expected her to be honoured, touched, even grateful; he did not expect—

"What?!" she said, then started to laugh. "My… my _guardian_? Are you serious?"

He blinked, taking in what she was asking, confused that she was reacting as she was. "Perfectly serious, Miss Jones."

Her laughter faded as she realised he was indeed serious. "I do _not_ need a guardian."

"Yes, you do. Young ladies—"

She surprised him by interrupting: "Do you have any idea how old I am? I'm _thirty-three._"

This prompted great laughter from Darcy; her indulgent upbringing reared its head again, that she could tell such an outrageous lie and not expect to be called on it. "I applaud your weak attempt to evade my guardianship, diverting as it is, but you need guidance and protection," he said.

She said no more, just stood there looking as imperious—even as furious!—as he had ever seen a woman look. "Was there anything else?" she asked after a long silence.

"No," he said. "That is all."

She turned and headed directly out of the room. Curious to see what she was doing and where she was going, he followed her.

"Miss Darcy," he heard Miss Jones ask as he got near to the sitting room. "Colonel Fitzwilliam. How old do you think I am?"

He came into the room in time to see his sister's confused expression, and his cousin's astonished one. "I do not know," said Georgiana.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam? What about you?"

Fitzwilliam turned deep red. "I am afraid to venture a guess," he said timidly.

"Afraid?"

"I do not wish to offend."

"I promise not to be offended."

"Should I?" He looked to Darcy, and it was only then that Miss Jones realised he had followed her.

Smugly, Darcy encouraged him and said that he should.

"All right… nineteen?"

"Nineteen?!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up into the air.

"Sorry, sorry," said Fitzwilliam. "Eighteen?"

"_No_." Miss Jones shot Darcy a very dark look, which made him smile, then chuckle again. "If you will excuse me," said Miss Jones, "I am going to my room for a lie down before dinner."

After Miss Jones had gone, Fitzwilliam asked, "Dare I enquire as to what that was about?"

"I informed her of the guardianship I was placing over her, and… she claimed she did not need it."

"But of course she needs it," said Georgiana tenderly. "Perhaps I should go see to her."

"I think she will need a little time to calm down from her… _tantrum_," said Darcy, with a smirk. "Thirty-three, indeed."

"_That_ is the age she claims to be?" laughed Fitzwilliam. "Oh, too rich."

…

Bridget slammed the door behind herself, but it still wasn't satisfying, as there was no way in the world Mr Darcy could hear it from where he was in this vast mansion. She felt tears in her eyes and an impotent frustration she hadn't experienced in quite some time; under ordinary circumstances she would have been delighted beyond measure to be thought of as nineteen, but this? This was intolerable! The chivalry and courtesy of Regency culture, and particularly of Regency gentlemen, was a million times more appealing on the printed page of a novel than it was in reality, where these supposed dashing men apparently had every right to treat a grown woman like she were a feeble, wayward child.

She thought longingly of her beloved Mark; this had been a fun lark, but with reality settling in, she missed him more than ever before. Mark had an authoritarian streak in him a mile wide but not even he would have ever attempted anything like this. If she could ever get back to her own wonderful if imperfect time period, she made a vow to never again complain about his occasionally annoying but well-meaning protective instinct, and too-often patriarchal way of addressing her and bossing her around… "Never again," she muttered, wishing yet again that she had a cigarette to smoke.

There was a knock at the door; Bridget resisted the urge to shout "Bugger off!" and instead asked only who it was.

"Elizabeth, miss."

"Oh, please come in." She turned, determined not to take frustrations out on the maid.

"I was just coming to help you dress for dinner."

The last thing she wanted to do at that moment was go down and face her warden after that conversation and it must have shown on her face, because the maid asked if she was all right. "I am—" Bridget began, then stopped herself from saying "just fine," because she realised she had a perfect opportunity and that she should take it. "I am feeling unwell. Bit of a headache. I do not think I will come down for dinner."

"I am sorry to hear that, miss," she said, and she looked it. "Shall I bring up something for you?"

_A cigarette_, she thought before she said, "Some soup and maybe bread would be nice."

After Elizabeth left, closing the door behind her, Bridget began to wonder exactly what 'guardianship' meant, and the more she thought about what it must have meant—like being under the thumb of a nun, taken to the worst possible extreme—the less she liked the very idea of it. She not only wanted Mark back, but she wanted to return to her own flat, her own friends… her own life.

_To return_, she thought again. She didn't know how she'd come to be where she was; did that mean she could never go back? She panicked a little at the very notion. And what was happening on Mark's end? Was he frantic, thinking she'd run away, or worse still, been abducted? Poor Mark. When she got back she would make it up to him. _If_ she got back.

Despite this overwhelmingly depressing series of thoughts, she chuckled to herself; in her adolescence she had dreamt, like many other love-struck teenaged girls, about dropping her boyfriend in a heartbeat for Mr Darcy if she was ever given the chance. Thus far, she hadn't been tempted at all. _And on top of everything else_, she thought, in much cheerier spirits, _I've met Jane Fucking Austen!_

She was also resolved: she was going to find a way to get home.

…

"A headache?" asked Darcy, perplexed.

"That is what Elizabeth told me," said Georgiana. "She wished to take dinner in her room, instead."

Darcy was sceptical that this was her reason for remaining sequestered (given the earlier rebellion over the guardianship), but said, "I hope it will be of short endurance."

Dinner was decidedly quieter and less eventful (and concluded much more quickly) without the presence of their outspoken houseguest; conversation centred around the upcoming ball and the impending arrival the next day of Bingley and his sisters. Oddly enough, Darcy realised he had come to quite enjoy the conversation and banter with Miss Jones in the short time she had been staying with them… and that he quite missed it.

He found that the still of her absence followed him into the library where he had a post-dinner brandy and cigar with his cousin, but spent a good many minutes in silence looking out at the grounds through the window. His silence was enough to cause Fitzwilliam to comment, "You are very pensive tonight, Darcy. What is on your mind? Or rather, whom?"

Darcy turned to meet Fitzwilliam's eye. "It is true that the absence of Miss Jones from dinner has put her into my thoughts, but do not be foolish. I am thinking only of the practicality of enforcing the guardianship I am beginning to regret taking on," he said with a smile.

"The fact that it is a challenge," said Fitzwilliam, "means she needs you to do it all the more."

Darcy chuckled quietly in agreement, then turned back to gaze through the window. As he did, he realised there was a figure moving quickly across the expanse of green garden, and in the blink of an eye he also realised that figure was Miss Jones. "What the devil…?" he began, narrowing his eyes. "What is that girl doing?"

Fitzwilliam moved to stand beside him instantly. "What girl? Of what do you speak?" No sooner had he asked than he saw what had caught Darcy's eye. "Ah," he said, then joked, "the aforementioned Miss Jones, making a run for it, I suppose. What do you think she is up to?"

"I do not know," said Darcy, "but I intend on finding out. Come, let us follow."

The two gentlemen passed the very astonished Perkins through the grand foyer and out the door in their haste to catch Miss Jones up. She seemed unaware that they were in pursuit until they were nearly to her, at which point she merely cast a glance over her shoulder in their direction but carried on in disregard of them.

At last they were to her, Fitzwilliam flanking one side and Darcy to the other, and still she did not acknowledge them. "Miss Jones," Darcy said. "Where do you think you are going?"

She did not respond, but merely kept on walking.

"Miss Jones," he said again, this time, grasping her upper arm, which startled her into stopping abruptly. "As your guardian—"

"I do not need a guardian," she said, then added, "_sir_."

At this, Darcy heard his cousin laugh under his breath, which riled Darcy's temper; he did not appreciate his authority being undermined. "You did not answer my question," Darcy said.

"I'm going to the village," she said, holding her chin high. "I'll get a job there as a barmaid or something, and then I can repay you for your hospitality… for which I am very grateful." She nodded her head to Fitzwilliam then to Darcy. "Good evening, gentlemen."

Both of them were too shocked to speak immediately as she turned on her heel and continued on into the quickly darkening twilight, despite the danger walking alone after dark could easily present to her. All at once his temper overcame him, and he shot forward to take hold of her wrist to stop her once more. "You will do no such thing," he said sharply. "You will come, and you will come _now_, back to the house, even if I must carry you myself."

He watched her blue eyes widen, her lips part ever so slightly, in what must have been shock. "But I want to—" she began.

"You will do as I say," he commanded, interrupting her, "willingly… or unwillingly."

To his astonishment, she attempted to wrest herself free of him. "Mr Darcy," she said, her ladylike composure completely gone, "you have no right to treat me like a child, and I do not have to obey your orders! I am free to go where I like, when I like—"

"As your guardian, I have _every_ right," he said darkly in his agitation, "and you will march back into the house unless you truly wish to be disciplined like a child." Darcy shot a glance to Fitzwilliam, expecting support and instead finding a look of overwhelming amusement; Darcy would have words with his cousin later about that later.

For her part, she looked stunned and said nothing, and taking advantage of her silence, he pulled her to start walking once more.

"And if I suspect you may try this again," continued Darcy, "I will be forced to restrain you to your room."

He glanced to her and saw an unmistakable look of anger on her countenance. "Monster," she growled, then continued to mutter under her breath: "Treating me like…. No right…."

As they arrived to the house, he did not respond; he knew it was her anger talking and he did not wish to escalate things further. They entered to Perkins' continued surprise. Darcy explained, "She was feeling unwell and… thought she could find her way home."

…

How could he _possibly_ have known where she was going?

This was what Bridget thought as Mr Darcy spoke to the butler; it seemed inconceivable that he could have guessed her purpose for heading outside was in actual fact a bid to find a way back to her time… but the more she thought about it, the more she realised he had just made up the story on the spot.

With scarcely another word from Mr Darcy, she was whooshed off and up to her room in order to prepare for bed, and as she did, she resolved to drive her tormentor mad at any and all given opportunities.

…

Once Darcy had sent Miss Jones upstairs with the maid Elizabeth, he and Fitzwilliam returned to the library to finish their brandies and salvage the end of the cigar. Darcy was still annoyed at his cousin and intended on speaking about it as soon as possible, and after he closed the door behind him, he spoke.

"I do not appreciate your display of diversion whilst I was attempting to handle Miss Jones."

At this, instead of a look of contrition and an apology, Fitzwilliam burst into a laugh, further agitating Darcy's irritation. "I do apologise," said his cousin, to his credit, once he had recovered himself enough to speak. "I do not mean to laugh at you, nor undermine your authority with Miss Jones. I must admit, however, that it is just too diverting to watch you try to handle her (as you say) when she does not conform to your expectations."

He wanted to shout at Fitzwilliam, but knew his cousin was all too right. "I should have just let her go on with her silly plan," Darcy grumbled, "one she probably got from a daft novel."

Fitzwilliam laughed anew. "Whose fault it is for only allowing her to read daft novels? In all seriousness, though—you know you could never stand aside and let her do it. I know you too well."

He was right on that count. "She clearly needs protection," Darcy said. "She claims a maturity beyond her years, but has no concept of the peril of the world around her."

"You are right," said Fitzwilliam. "This should be extraordinarily fun to watch."

Darcy was not amused.


	5. Chapter 5

**Mr Darcy's Bed**

Words: 30,808 in six chapters

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Credits: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

After a long lie-in the next morning—with continued claims of a painfully tender head as Elizabeth helped her to dress and pin her hair—Bridget had a bit of breakfast in her room. She was just finishing up when Bridget heard something outside approaching the house that, for a moment, sounded like an auto. She went to the window and saw that instead it was a covered coach. Curious, she went out of the room and was just descending the stairs when she saw what seemed to her eyes to be a parade of well-dressed people and their baggage arriving, though in actual fact was just a gentleman, two ladies, and servants bustling about with their things.

"Oh, there's Miss Jones, my ward." This was Mr Darcy's voice, which sent her into a state of dissonance; his voice was deep, resonant, and lovely to listen to, but the fact that he was referring to her as his ward made her want to kick him in where it hurt. He was suddenly standing beside her, grasping her upper arm as if she might run off, and just as suddenly the new faces were directly across from her. "Miss Jones, this is my very good friend Mr Bingley, his sister Mrs Hurst, and his other sister Miss Bingley."

Given the nature of where (and when) she was, it should have not surprised her as much as it did to be introduced to more of the characters she had known for years, but she was surprised to meet the legendary Bingley and Caroline, and for a moment Bridget could only gawk in silence, thinking how much older they looked—how much older they _all_ looked—than she imagined they did whilst reading the book. _No wonder they all think I'm seventeen_, she thought.

"I do not understand," Caroline said. Neither did Bridget.

Bingley spoke up. "It is obvious to me, sister."

Bridget realised that she stood holding her hand out as if for a shake, pointing towards Mr Bingley. Smoothly, however, Bingley took her hand and delicately and gallantly kissed the back of it as Bridget did a hasty curtsey. She snuck a look at Mr Darcy, who quickly hid a look of shock, possibly disapproval, and she decided the mistake on her part was a good start to her agenda of driving the man out of his mind with frustration.

"It is a pleasure to meet you all," said Bridget in a saccharinely sweet voice, smiling as she met each of their gazes in turn.

"And a pleasure meeting you, Miss Jones." Bingley looked genuinely happy as he said this; there was something wonderfully open and honest about his face, and she found she liked him instantly. His sister Caroline, however, had an obviously false smile on her face as she spoke next.

"A real delight," she said coolly, fixing her gaze on Bridget's before looking away. "I hope you will beg my pardon. I find I am in need of a little rest after our journey."

"Oh, I thought I heard voices down here!" They all turned to see Georgiana coming down the stairs.

"Georgiana, dear," said Caroline, moving to meet her at the bottom. "How are you?"

"I am well," she said as the two ladies clasped hands in a friendly manner before releasing them. "I do apologise for not coming down to meet you," she said. "I was immersed in a book and lost track of my morning."

"I have been longing to talk with you," said Caroline.

"Perhaps we can arrange for luncheon a little early," said Georgiana.

"That would be—" began Caroline gleefully.

"Miss Bingley was just saying she wanted a lie-down after her trip," offered Bridget; how did the others not see through her machinations to ingratiate herself to Mr Darcy? Or was it that Bridget simply had the insight of the book, and knew better?

"Oh! Well, you _must_ lie down and rest, then, and we can talk at luncheon," Georgiana said; to be honest, to Bridget she looked and sounded relieved. "Come, I shall show both you and Louisa to your rooms directly."

Bridget turned back to the men in time to see Darcy giving her a penetrating gaze, one that, nostalgically enough, reminded her of Mark. "Are you certain," Mr Darcy said, "you are recovered from your headache? Do you not also need a… lie-down?"

"Fully recovered," she said brightly, then turned to Mr Bingley. "So your trip went well?" she asked, then added, "I trust?"

"It did, I thank you," he said. "Quite smooth and the weather uncommonly pleasant. We stopped for the night at The Greyhound Coaching Inn in Lutterworth to break up the trip, change the horses—"

"Miss Jones," interrupted Mr Darcy, "I have some things I need to discuss with Mr Bingley, in private. If you will pardon us."

"In private?" she asked suspiciously. "What about?"

"That is private," Mr Darcy said curtly, "and a matter of business that does not concern young ladies."

She swore steam began to rise from her head. "Oh! Does this concern me? If it is, I would like to be there, too."

"It is about your circumstance," said Darcy, "but as your guardian I shall inform you of any matters that concern you, or the result of our discussion if necessary. Go and await Georgiana's return in the drawing room, and together you can attend to luncheon once it is ready."

With a grin, she said, "I believe I shall instead go to the garden."

Bridget could tell that Darcy wanted to shout at her but instead said in a superficially pleasant voice with an undertone of threat, "I would prefer you did _not_ go out of doors. Go and wait for my sister."

She said nothing else except for a goodbye to Mr Bingley with another little curtsey, then shot away in the direction of the garden in defiance of Darcy's recommendation, without even a bonnet or gloves. _Such scandal!_ thought Bridget impishly.

…

Darcy watched his friend Bingley's gaze follow Miss Jones from the foyer with a sense of irritation; why it bothered him as much as it did was a mystery to him, however. "Shall we, then?" Darcy said, regaining his friend's attention. "Unless you would also like to rest after the journey."

Bingley smiled, even chuckled a little as they began the walk to the library. "I am fine, and you are undoubtedly eager to hear what I have to say on the subject of your intriguing ward," he said, "though I fear I must disappoint you by telling you I have nothing new to report."

Darcy closed the door behind them only to discover that his cousin Fitzwilliam was already there, reading the _Gazette_. He closed it and stood. "Bingley, old chap!" said Fitzwilliam. "I had no idea your arrival was this early today. How very nice to see you."

"And I, you," said Bingley. "Well, for all talk of needing privacy to discuss Miss Jones, I am afraid that I have already told you all there is to tell. But surely there are details you did not relay to me through the post. How came she to Pemberley?"

Darcy looked to Fitzwilliam. "In all honesty, we do not know the specifics," said Darcy. "She was already in the house when I discovered her. She claims to not know herself."

Fitzwilliam grinned, adding quite unhelpfully, "He discovered her in his bed."

Bingley's eyes widened.

"She appeared… beside me during the night," Darcy said. "She was asleep, and after awakening at my demanding to know how she had gotten there, she demonstrated she was feverish—" He thought of the accusation regarding his sideburns. "—and unaware of her surroundings."

Bingley looked astonished at this admission.

"I can assure you that nothing untoward happened," Darcy added. "I ensured all propriety was maintained. She is still perfectly innocent."

"I can see why you would not want that information widely known," said Bingley. "Particularly if she does turn out to be of higher birth than originally thought."

Darcy knew he was referring to what had transpired in the foyer, but Fitzwilliam looked perplexed, so Darcy explained, "Miss Jones presented her hand to Bingley in a rather natural way for a kiss, as if she gave no thought to the action at all."

"As if she has been doing it all of her life," added Bingley. "She looked rather abashed that she had been caught out, which made me wonder if she had meant not to do it at all."

"I was under the very same impression," said Darcy.

To this news, Fitzwilliam offered only a sharp laugh. "And to think, Darcy, that you threatened to discipline a potential royal personage!"

Darcy chose to ignore the jab, and said instead, "If she is of a birth so high above even our own, it may explain why we can find nothing about her." He sighed, running his hand over his hair. "We shall have to proceed as we have been, whilst continuing to search for answers."

With that conversation concluded, the three men began to speak of other things, at least until Bingley spotted a figure out in the garden: "Darcy, isn't that Miss Jones? I thought you told her to go to the drawing room to wait for your sister."

Darcy drew near to the window, and was astonished to not only see Miss Jones walking through the garden, but she was doing so without proper adornment; her bonnet and gloves were conspicuously absent. She turned her face to the sky as if wishing it to become as browned as a biscuit, and as she opened her eyes again she saw the three men standing at the library window. Instead of recoiling in horror as any proper lady might do, she simply smiled and waved to them before traipsing off.

"I believe she did that in order to spite me," said Darcy coolly.

Fitzwilliam's voice was far more amused: "I concur wholeheartedly."

After a few more convivial minutes, the trio split to take care of tasks prior to luncheon. Darcy's thoughts, however, were occupied with a new theory that had germinated out of what had transpired in the foyer: Miss Jones had full knowledge of who she was and how she had come to be at Pemberley, and intentionally chose not to reveal any of it out of a desire to hide from her family.

_Well_, thought Darcy, _that charade will last only as long as the ball, for if she is a lady of high standing, her identity will not remain a secret for long._

…

Bridget thought the looks on the gentlemen's faces were beyond priceless as she laughed then headed back towards the house. She had accomplished her mission, in part anyway: going outside against Mr Darcy's express wishes, and waving to them, leaving them looking scandalised. When she arrived back in she went directly to the drawing room to find Georgiana there; Georgiana looked slightly surprised at her entrance.

"There you are!" she said, setting her book down. "I thought I would find you here upon my return. Where were you?"

"I took a quick turn in the garden," Bridget said.

"Oh, without your bonnet or gloves?" Poor Georgiana's delicate features became a picture of distress, and suddenly Bridget felt very guilty. "Oh Miss Jones, you really ought not do that!"

"I am very sorry, Miss Darcy," said Bridget sincerely. "I only did it to irritate your brother a little—go into the garden, I mean."

"And you did not have time to grasp your bonnet and gloves?"

"I—" Bridget began, then realised she didn't suspect that it was _all_ meant to irritate Mr Darcy, the hatless, gloveless traipse out of doors. However she had no intention of hurting his sister. "Yes, I did not have the time. It was an impulse, because… because he has assigned himself my guardian…"

"Oh, but Miss Jones, you could never ask for a better guardian if you tried!" proclaimed Georgiana. "He is the kindest and wisest of men, and you could not ask for a _fairer_ guardian."

_For outmoded values of 'fair,' I suppose_, she thought, then said, "I guess I am used to having a little more… self-sufficiency than he allows me, and I feel stifled." Bridget offered a small smile, and added, "I imagine, as his sister, that you are not totally unbiased."

Georgiana smiled too, restored to her former happy disposition. "I suppose I am not unbiased," she said. "But he really is a good brother. A good man."

The words echoed in Bridget's head; she reflected how she had not seen her own Darcy for the good man he was until she had gotten to know him better. Still, she had no intention of relenting on her goal for the day—unless it truly bothered Georgiana. "Your brother _is_ a good man," she said, "and I truly am grateful for all of his help… but I can't stop myself from thinking he needs a bit of teasing. Do you object?"

Much to Bridget's surprise, a slow smile spread across Georgiana's lips. "My brother is, I fear, not teased nearly enough," she said. "However, I implore you, Miss Jones, nothing too harsh."

"I promise," she said, "and you know… since we are friends, I'd like it better if you called me Bridget. It will help me to feel more at home, less of a burden… less alone."

"Oh, of course!" said Georgiana as she set down her book, bursting with happiness, leaning over and shocking Bridget with an enthusiastic (though polite) hug. "Of _course_ you may call me Georgiana!" She pulled back to hold her book again, then said in a quieter voice, "It is a pleasure to call you my friend—and I cannot say the same for all ladies granted the use of my Christian name."

Bridget grinned and considered that the demure, quiet girl might just be true Urban Family material; just then, though, as if somehow sensing Georgiana's subtle insult towards her, the room filled with the presence of Caroline Bingley and her sister, who were apparently sufficiently rested from their trip to come and suck up to Mr Darcy's sister. "Georgiana, dearest," cooed Caroline. "I thought I might find you here."

"It is usually the best place to find me, as you well know," said Georgiana. "Did you rest well? Are you hungry? Luncheon will not be much longer now."

Georgiana's words turned out to be prophetic, as within minutes of Mr Bingley's sisters' arrival the butler appeared to announce that lunch was served, interrupting a particularly drawn-out story of Caroline's. This elicited a look from Caroline that quite made her look like she'd had a lemon shoved in her face.

…

Much to Darcy's relief, luncheon with Bingley and his sisters was less eventful than he'd been expecting, for which he was grateful. As she usually did, Miss Bingley dominated the conversation, but what caught his attention was the perpetual almost-smile of Miss Jones' that accompanied every one of Miss Bingley's overabundance of compliments towards himself. Miss Jones seemed to integrate well with the others; it was only for himself alone that she maintained a cool demeanour.

The span of time between luncheon and dinner was to be occupied with matters of business pertinent to the estate, a consultation with his steward; in perfect frankness Darcy welcomed the work as a break from the whirlwind of dealing with not only his new ward, but the additional guests and upcoming ball.

In this whirlwind, he had forgotten that the Misses Austen were to dine at Pemberley again that evening. He was reminded as he came down for dinner after dressing, and overheard the chatter of distinctively female voices, one of which he recognised as belonging to Mrs Watson. He supposed he should have considered himself lucky to regularly have such a wide variety of female company—he did, after all, need to find a wife and helped to make the acquaintance of as many suitable ladies as possible to broaden the scope—but at that moment, after everything with Miss Jones, he felt more than ever like sequestering himself in his library and away from other people.

However, he was the master of Pemberley, and short of being on his deathbed, he should always be present at dinner when guests were involved.

He greeted the roomful of ladies and gentlemen assembled in the drawing room with a courteous nod of his head; as he looked around from face to face he realised that one lady was conspicuously absent: Miss Jones. He also realised that on this occasion the vicar had accompanied his wife—a fact that he had likely known but forgotten—and he felt his guard raise even higher. Mr Watson might have been a man of God, but his obsequious manner towards his patron wore on Darcy's nerves.

"I am so sorry I'm—"

It was Miss Jones, who looked resplendent in a pale blue dress, her hair pinned prettily up. She stopped talking as he turned to face her; Miss Jones, who had come down to dinner alone. "Good evening," said Darcy, but she merely smiled, did a cursory curtsey, then went further into the room.

At dinner, Miss Bingley talked to him endlessly, plying him with the usual praise and compliments, but he paid her little attention; he was far more interested in observing how effortlessly Miss Jones seemed to interact with his guests, prompting laughter and obviously charming them all. She seemed especially fond of speaking to the younger of the Misses Austen, who seemed equally fond of Miss Jones.

The fact that Bingley seemed utterly taken by Miss Jones did not really surprise Darcy; Bingley often admitted to falling in love with pretty girls often. It did annoy Darcy, though, that his friend could be so easily swayed by her looks alone without knowing barely a thing about her, about how unlike most ladies her mind worked, her uninhibited opinion and sharp wit.

Miss Bingley was too perceptive, unfortunately, and saw that he was only paying her minimal attention. "Mr Darcy," she said with excessive volume upon seeing that again she did not have his full attention, "you must tell us more about your charming ward. Clearly a lady of our sphere, but how is it that I have not yet heard of her? Did she not have a coming-out season in town?" Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "How generous and kind of you to offer to take on the responsibility of guardianship, sir. It is truly the mark of an upstanding gentleman."

"Oh, I concur," offered Miss Jones. "Particularly when nobody asked him to do so."

Her words underscored to the others that his actions had been altruistic, but there was another meaning intended especially for him: _particularly when she did not want him to do so_.

He felt his ire raise. "One does not wait in such circumstances to be asked to shoulder responsibility," he said curtly. "I would be unable to live with myself if I allowed a young lady to subject herself to the perils of the world. To expect them to be aware of such perils is foolishness."

"Foolishness," Miss Jones repeated, raising her chin ever so slightly. "I suppose it would be too much to make them aware, hmm? How is that young gentlemen are not also overwhelmed by the perils of the world?"

"Propriety must be observed," he said with finality. "It is for your own good, and the good of all young ladies."

"I bet a man made that decision," she retorted, though not with meanness, only sparkling humour. Some of the ladies, like Bingley's sisters, reacted as if they had just heard something scandalous; some, like Miss Jane, smirked, and his own cousin was trying valiantly not to laugh. This made it all the more frustrating.

"Just as my protection is for your own good," he continued. "You know nothing of which you speak." He reflected on the innocence of young ladies of his acquaintance; there was no way she could conceive of the evils of which she was not aware.

"It is true," she said with a sigh; the tone of her voice sounded very much younger than her years, which he suspected was intentional. "I am but a girl, though, and I am _so_ happy you are there for me." This she paired with a sincere, apologetic smile, which baffled him to no end.

"It is my pleasure to do it," he said, returning his attention to his food.

It was not the only time she succeeded in coming very close to impertinence during the course of dinner; it was not meanly meant, but it was of the sort he did not commonly find amongst young ladies. Rather, it was of the sort he did not _ever_ find amongst young ladies.

…

"Is there something the matter?"

The ladies had moved to the drawing room as the gentlemen enjoyed their post-dinner brandy. As Caroline, Louisa, Mrs Watson and Cassandra spoke at length with Georgiana, Bridget had quietly slipped away to be alone with her thoughts at the window. Jane, however, seemed to have noticed and had approached with this concern.

"Nothing is wrong," said Bridget, turning with a smile, and it was sincere; the truth of it was far more complicated than she could adequately explain to a nineteenth-century woman about her interactions and her relationship (as it were) with a nineteenth-century man, one for whom feminist ideals would be as out-there a concept as Wi-Fi.

"You seem troubled and Mr Darcy seems the locus of that trouble," Jane said quietly. "Pray, tell me if I can help, even if it is only by listening."

Bridget sighed, trying to think of how best to word it, because she felt she had an ally in Jane Austen. "I do not believe that Mr Darcy and I have compatible views when it comes to what is right and wrong for ladies in society. I'm coming to realise there is too much to overcome to make him see my point of view, so I must accept him as he is."

Jane seemed to consider her response before speaking. "Gentlemen like Mr Darcy will need time to come to the realisation that we ladies are capable of so much more than they think we are."

"Do you think," Bridget asked cautiously, "that they will ever come to realise this?"

"I think it will take some time," Jane said with a smile, "but yes, I think they will. It is a truth that cannot forever be obscured." After a pause, she added, her smile broadening as she spoke, "I admit, Miss Jones, to an admiration for you, in standing up for what you believe in; other unmarried ladies would never dare to incur the wrath of the formidable master of Pemberley by openly contradicting him!"

This declaration made Bridget laugh. "I often speak before I think. Too often, probably. It gets me into such trouble."

Jane surprised Bridget by placing her hand on Bridget's shoulder. "I know of what you speak," she said quietly. "I feel already as if we are sisters in spirit."

This sentiment made Bridget's heart well with all sorts of emotion: pride, pleasure, and a bit of frustration, as she wanted to burst out and express her love of all of her novels, but knew that was impossible as they hadn't been published yet. "So do I!" she said. "Please, feel free to call me Bridget, won't you?"

Jane looked a little startled, yet at the same time pleased. "You did not jest in saying that you had an impetuous tongue," she said, "but I would be pleased to address you so informally… and you should feel free to call me Jane."

Bridget beamed broadly. "I would be honoured."

…

When Darcy entered the drawing room with the other gentlemen, he immediately noticed that Miss Jones and Miss Jane were apart from the others, speaking together in a secretive way; he immediately suspected that his ward had done so on purpose to avoid him, then with equal immediacy, he chastised himself for making such an assumption.

"Ah," said Georgiana. "Impeccable timing, brother. I was just getting ready to serve tea."

The ladies' attention turned toward the door, even Miss Jane's and Miss Jones'.

"It is quite cosy in here," said Bingley with his usual cheerful manner. "How lucky we gentlemen are to have such company!"

"Agreed," said Fitzwilliam with a smile of his own. "Anyone game for cards with their cake and tea?"

Georgiana poured the tea, she took to her pianoforte to play. Talk of forming card parties burbled around them; Miss Jones demurred quite loudly.

"If you are declining on my account, do not," said Darcy. "I will not be playing this evening."

She pursed her lips. "I am _not_ declining on your account," she said.

"Shall I get you some tea?" he asked.

"I can get my own tea," she said a bit snappishly.

"I know that you _can_," he said calmly. "I was offering to do it as a kindness."

She had the grace to look contrite. "I apologise," she said. "Yes, I'd like tea and cake very much."

They sat together, guardian and ward, and he felt obligated to speak to her on something approaching middle ground. The first to come to mind was her apparently taking a liking to Miss Jane, despite the possibility that Miss Jones might be aristocracy. "I wish to thank you for your attention to Miss Jane," he said.

"Thank me?" said Miss Jones, who looked genuinely confused. "I want to thank _you_ for allowing me the chance to meet her."

He too was confused, but merely went on to explain, "They are not well-connected ladies nor is their fortune great. It is evident to me that Bingley's sisters have little care to interact with them."

"Your sister does," she said, indicating Georgiana's spirited conversation with the vicar's wife and the Austen ladies at their card table. "But then again," Miss Jones said in a quiet tone, "your sister is cut from a much finer cloth than they are."

Darcy smiled, then quickly composed his features. "As your guardian, I should thoroughly scold you for such a disparaging remark," he said in a mock-stern tone, resulting in the expected displeased look, then he added, "but I happen to agree with you, so I shall not."

These words had the intended effect; she smiled very broadly, even laughed a little.

"I admire that you are able to treat all people kindly and with equanimity," he continued, even though such kindness to those of lower stations would never be acceptable to his aunt, Lady Catherine. He considered what seemed to him to have been an odd upbringing and an even odder education. "Most ladies in society are very strictly guarded when it comes to with whom they interact, but you are not like most ladies."

She seemed surprised and a little embarrassed, her cheeks tinting a faint pink. "Thank you," she said. "That's very kind."

There was something in her smile that suggested to him that she was no longer upset over the whole guardianship arrangement—and in realising thus he also realised that he found her impertinence appealing, which was unusual given his strict adherence to propriety under ordinary circumstances.

After the group broke up for the evening, Darcy lingered at the window for a little longer than the rest, and in heading up for his own room he inadvertently came upon a conversation amongst the Bingley siblings, quietly held, but not quiet enough to escape his ears.

"Well, I think she is a perfect horror." Miss Bingley. "She should be falling with gratitude at Mr Darcy's feet for taking her into his protection, not being so critical!"

"Agreed," said Mrs Hurst, though she often agreed with her sister and could hardly be considered an original thinker.

"I care not that she is supposed to be some sort of great lady of social standing, to hear you all speak of her—" This was evidently directed at Bingley, suggesting not only himself but the other gentlemen. "—but she has frightful manners and is far too forthright and impudent!"

"I think she is delightful," said Bingley, "and it is clear she has given much thought to her opinions, even when it is not popular to agree! No one likes to be agreed with all the time, and it is clear that Darcy feels this way—as much as he would deny it to my face!"

"Well, if she stays on with the family for any great length," Miss Bingley declared, "she will drive poor Mr Darcy witless!"

As Darcy slipped away undetected, he mused that if Miss Bingley disliked her so much, there must be very something special indeed about her. It endeared her to him even more.

…

Bridget had nearly forgotten all about the ball, or rather, exactly when it was slated to take place, since in the days she'd been there everyone seemed to be talking about it quite a lot. In forgetting that the ball was happening when it was, she'd forgotten about the dress she was borrowing from Georgiana Darcy's generous wardrobe, and she'd particularly forgotten that they danced complicated country dances that involved tons of people. Perhaps not tons, she corrected herself, but significantly more people were required for them than for the one-on-one dances with which she was more familiar. Unbidden, she thought of the times she'd gone out with Mark, where they'd danced in a manner that was unheard of in this era: slow, sexy music, her body against his; his hand on her backside…

Her first reminder that day had been what seemed to be a too-early bell to dress for dinner. "Oh," she'd blurted after Elizabeth the maid told her why, then she'd thought of everything she'd eaten and how surely she'd now burst the seams of the dress that was designated for her.

Now, though, to her utter surprise, the dress not only fit but seemed to fit more comfortably than she remembered it fitting before, even with wearing her modern bra and her own white cotton dress in place of the usual chemise. Still, she was not absolutely happy with how she looked in her first ball gown—felt a bit like a stuffed sausage, to be honest, and it felt far too indecent compared to the usual dresses—and as she examined herself in the looking glass, Georgiana came in and asked Elizabeth how her hair was coming along.

"I have not yet begun Miss Jones' hair, Miss Darcy," said Elizabeth sheepishly. "She is not sure about the dress."

"Not sure?" asked Georgiana. "Bridget, you must—" She stopped with a gasp. "Why, you look astonishing!"

She looked towards Georgiana. "Do you really think so?" Bridget asked, her spirits lifted a bit.

"I most certainly do," Georgiana said. "You will make the other ladies envious beyond measure." After a beat, she added in a much quieter tone, "Especially Miss Bingley." Bridget smiled. "Your complexion is much nicer, your figure is superb…"

"And my teeth are all present and accounted for," joked Bridget.

This made Georgiana blush. "You do have a very lovely smile," she said, "and your teeth _are_ quite remarkable. I have met some high-born ladies who have not been as lucky as you have been."

Bridget felt regretful of her flippant manner and tone; by modern standards, her skin, her teeth, were average at best, and her figure was nothing (in her own opinion) approaching 'superb.' _Talk about perspective_, she thought. _Maybe they're not so bad, after all._ "I did not mean… to make you uncomfortable." Deciding to change tack, she said, taking in Georgiana's gorgeous, resplendent pale yellow silk gown, "And you… my goodness, no wonder you threw this dress over for that one. You look incredibly beautiful in it."

"Oh, Bridget, you are so kind," she said. "Come now; allow Elizabeth to fix your hair. There are always some guests who arrive early so we ought to be prepared for their arrival."

As Elizabeth pinned Bridget's hair in a Greek revival style so popular for the time, Georgiana left the room only to return a few minutes later with a pair of sapphire earrings for Bridget to wear. "These will go so well with your dress, I can scarcely resist," said Georgiana as she held them for Bridget to see.

"These are—" she began, then broke off suddenly in her shock because she realised she had seen them before, on the website for Pemberley, though the photo had done them no justice. "These have left me speechless. They are beautiful beyond words…. Are you sure you want to loan them to me?"

"I insist," said Georgiana, and with the way her chin was set Bridget knew better than to continue her protest.

"Thank you so much."

Once the earrings were fixed in place, there was nothing more to do but to head down to the first floor in anticipation of the arrival of the guests; as they did they discovered that several guests had already in fact arrived.

They went into the ballroom, which Bridget recalled so vividly as where she'd had dinner with Mark before she'd found herself in Regency England; Georgiana walked towards Mr Darcy just as he turned to face them. He looked seriously annoyed.

"There you are," he said, his voice betraying how cross he was despite his best efforts. "You were expected some thirty minutes hence—" As his gaze moved to Bridget, he stopped abruptly, apparently losing his train of thought.

"We are here now," said Georgiana, yet Mr Darcy still did not seem inclined to speak. "I will just attend to the arrangements and show Bridget around in the process. Is that all right?"

He nodded, then said as almost an afterthought, "Yes, yes. Perfectly all right."

Georgiana led Bridget away; their surroundings were all so overwhelming, especially with the candles blazing and sparkling like stars in every direction. Everything Georgiana told Bridget practically went in one ear and out the other, except for where the refreshment was, because she spotted and easily recognised the Negus that she'd had at dinner with Mark. It wasn't Chardonnay, but it would do. _Just don't go getting overly pissed_, she scolded mentally as she poured a small serving for herself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Mr Darcy's Bed**

Words: 30,808 in six chapters

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Credits: See Chapter 1.

Thanks all for your patience. Yesterday was not an easy day at all, letting go of a furry family member—then again, doing what is right often not doing what is easy.

* * *

**Chapter 6.**

The ball was filling up quickly; all of the guests seemed to be arriving at once. Darcy greeted them as they arrived but he could not deny that his thoughts continued to be occupied by Miss Jones. Her appearance in the ballroom had surprised him because he had not seen her before as she really was: an alluring young lady to whom he was attracted. Yes, as much as he had not wanted to admit it to himself, he was attracted to her. The pale blue silk that brought out the blue of her eyes; the scoop of the neckline accentuating her figure—though it did him no good to consider her in that way, she who was his ward—

"Cousin!" It was Fitzwilliam. "I have just seen Miss Jones. She is a vision, and if there is anyone here who knows her, surely they will step forward to renew the acquaintance."

"Yes," he said; as his voice was unsteady, he cleared his throat and said again, "Yes. It will be good to possibly have some answers at last."

Unfortunately, the gentlemen that approached him had no information to give, but rather, desired information from him, in the form of an introduction; they wanted to know more about her, and were eager to become acquainted with her. He obliged, as was expected, but she surprised him when she very sweetly and politely turned each down for the dances they requested. He was befuddled. Why should she refuse to dance with respectable gentlemen? Did she feel they were below her station? It seemed preposterous.

They were approaching dinner at the ball's midpoint when he decided very suddenly he would ask her for a dance. Surely she could not refuse him; he was her host, her guardian. With determination he crossed the ballroom, where he found her speaking with Miss Jane.

"…and I understand that Mr Darcy's first name is the same as the colonel's last." Miss Jane looked confused; Darcy admitted he was as well. First name? Last? Miss Jones seemed to notice and explained, "Er, I mean that there seems to be a habit of using a family name as a, er, Christian name within the same extended family. Must be a nightmare at Christmas. 'Fitzwilliam!… No, not _you_, Fitzwilliam, I meant _Fitzwilliam_!'"

Miss Jane smiled, then laughed—Darcy smiled too—and he took advantage in the break in conversation to intrude upon them. "Miss Jones, I wonder if I might ask you for the next dance."

She turned to look directly up into his face, all radiant and shining as she was, and he was sure she would smile more broadly and claim his elbow. He was gravely disappointed when instead she said, "I am afraid I must decline, Mr Darcy."

He tried not to let his features reveal his feelings, though judging from the look of surprise on Miss Jane's face it seemed she knew what his thoughts must be. That she would refuse even him… could she really still be so upset about his placing her in guardianship? "Miss Jones," he said curtly, "I would like to speak to you in private."

"Private? Why?"

"I would prefer not to say," he said, taking hold of her upper arm, "and I would prefer you did not put up objections and attract attention to yourself and to me."

She scowled at Darcy, but said to Miss Jane in a cheery, bright voice, "We will talk more later, I hope?"

Miss Jane smiled. "I would like that very much."

To her credit she went along with him and her behaviour was largely unchanged, save that she was much quieter than usual, muttering under her breath only, "Talk about not attracting attention—frogmarching me."

He took her into the entryway and into a room adjacent to the ballroom that was not in use, then closed the door and turned towards her.

"This has gone on long enough," he said.

"I have no idea what you mean."

"You are insulting every gentleman here by your constant refusal to dance," he said. "Are none of us acceptable, and if so, why not?"

Instead of indignation, or confirming his worst fears, she instead cast her gaze down, looking very sheepish. "I… don't know how."

"You…" he began hesitantly.

"Do not know how," she repeated slowly, raising her chin, looking at him at last. "If I go out there and take a place in one of those formations, I will run into someone, step on their foot, fall down and land on my—well. You get the idea."

"How can you—" he began again. "How can a lady such as yourself not know how to dance? Is that not something—"

"Just take my word for it," she said.

He did not know what more to say to her; just then, he heard the music start up again, and in that moment he was inspired: "We can hear the music. In here, in private, I could show you the steps."

She burst out with a laugh. "I was under the impression that you did not care to dance."

"That is not so," he said, "when I have a suitable partner."

She smiled. "So I am suitable?"

He held out his hand, indicating that she was more than suitable; not many ladies, he realised, made him feel quite so intrigued, so intellectually stimulated, so _alive_, despite his exasperation… or possibly because of it. In fact, he was beginning to realise he could not think of another lady who did. Despite the precipitous way she had entered his life, despite his efforts to locate her family, he was coming to realise that he glad she had come to him, and that he was dreading her departure most acutely… a most unexpected development.

She placed her gloved fingers in his, and then she laughed again. "All right," she said with a definitive nod. "Let's do this."

…

Bridget couldn't help laughing. Watching a Regency gentleman trying to teach her the steps in time with the music faintly wafting in through the walls was, as Lizzie Bennet might say, diverting. If she had to guess, she would say he enjoyed it too; in more unguarded moments, she caught him looking quite jovial, with a smile on his face and a chuckle low in his throat. It suited him very much, but then again, she was quite biased toward being fond of a very similar smile.

The song came to an end; she curtseyed, he bowed, and they smiled at each other one more time. She laughed lightly. "I'm hopeless. You can see now why I wouldn't want to do this in front of others."

"You did not do so badly, Miss Jones," he said. "Now. The end of this dance signals the upcoming commencement of dinner." He held out his elbow, which she took as a sign that he was offering to escort her.

Before they got to the door, though, he stopped. "Miss Jones, before we join the others in the ballroom," he said, "there is something I would like to ask."

_Here we go again_, she thought. _He's going to go on and on again about being my guardian, that I should behave, and not speak of unladylike things…_. "Ask away," she said.

"If…" He hesitated. "If we are not able to return you to the place from where you came, I would like to know if you would consider me as more than a guardian."

She looked up, shocked. "What exactly do you mean?" she asked, though she had an inkling she already knew.

"You are unlike any other lady I have ever met," he said. "You are impertinent and even improper at times, and yet… you appeal very greatly to me. I wish to put our relationship on more equal footing. I am offering you—"

She rapidly backed away. "Oh, no," she interrupted, bringing her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Mr _Darcy_," she said, then pondered the ridiculousness of what she'd just said and how she'd said it, and tried not to laugh.

"Do you find this somehow diverting?" he asked, his face darkening with his irritation.

Given her thoughts of Lizzie Bennet not that long ago, she couldn't stifle a chuckle quickly enough; she immediately apologised, waving her hand. "No, sir, I do not," she said. "I have actually dreamt of this moment since I was a girl… but I think… there's probably something you should know."

He raised a brow. "Do enlighten me."

"I am not from here."

He blinked, as if surprised she hadn't said more. "I believe this has already been established."

"No," she said. "When I say I am not from here, I _really_ mean it." She stopped; she could never tell him she was from a different era altogether. He would commit her into a madhouse.

"So tell me from where you _have_ come," said Mr Darcy, a little more encouragingly. "We can arrange for your transport home."

She laughed mirthlessly. "If only it were that easy. I may well be stuck here." She met his gaze again. "I am also engaged to be married," she said, pointing to her ring, then smiled a little. "Oh, God. That sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud that way."

Mr Darcy's face dropped. "Surely your affianced must be very worried," he said.

"I hope so," she said. "I have no way to know if he even knows I've gone."

He approached her again, taking her hand in his. "Miss Jones," he said. "Tell me where it is that you reside."

She took in a deep breath. "London. Borough Market."

He looked stunned. "You reside at the market?"

"No, no," she said. "It's really nice, I promise. Near the—" She stopped, thinking that telling him she lived over a pub would not help her case. Taking another approach in the hopes of impressing upon him that she did not live in a vegetable stand, she added, "My fiancé lives in Holland Park."

"I am not familiar with that area," he said. "Surely you do not mean Holland House, the rural manor?"

She thought of Mark's wedding cake house, of her friends and their nights out, her job and her fuckwit boss, her flat… and she burst into tears. "No, I mean Holland _Park_," she said in a great rush, "which is a very posh area of my London, and I think my fiancé _might_ be your great-great-great-grandson or something, because he looks _just_ like you and _that's_ why I tried tearing off your sideburns, because I thought he was having a joke and I just want to go back home!"

Mr Darcy looked about as shocked as one might expect. "My great-great…" he managed.

"Yes," she said. "Very successful human rights barrister."

"_What_ kind of barrister?" he asked.

"Never mind," she said. "Not important."

"Come on," he said gruffly. "Perhaps you have indulged in too much of the Negus. You are making little sense. Let us go and eat some dinner, and in the morning we can arrange for transport to London to find your barrister fiancé."

Suddenly she felt badly for having had to reject him; after all it was not every day that a legendary literary figure—one whom she had fancied for years—proposed to her! She considered that if for some reason she couldn't find her way home, she might very well accept… but then she thought better of it, because that might mean she might be Mark's own great-great-etc. grandmother, and that was extremely off-putting. "Mr Darcy," she said, taking his hand tenderly in hers, "if circumstances had been different, and were I a proper Regency lady… I would have been honoured to accept."

He met her gaze, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile on his lips. "I think you are a proper lady," he said, then brought her gloved hand up to place a kiss on the back of it. "Now to dinner, before we are missed."

As they exited the room, Bridget realised that none other than Jane Austen was just outside the door. "I was worried at your hasty departure from the ballroom," she said. "Is everything all right?" Her voice was laden with concern, though the look of delight on her face spoke volumes about how long she had been there, and possibly about what she had overheard.

"Everything is quite all right," he said. "It is time for dinner; let me escort you as well as Miss Jones." He offered his other elbow to her, and with that they entered the dining room as a trio.

…

If Darcy was quieter during dinner than usual, it was because his mind was still turning over the conversation with Miss Jones. If she were to be believed, she was suggesting she was not only not from Derbyshire, but not from his era at all. It was nonsensical, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became; why invent a silly story simply to refuse his hand in marriage?

As dinner concluded and the ball resumed, he resolved to ask again and not take no for an answer. He felt very strongly about her—in fact, he realised he _loved_ her—and thought that she could love him, too, given half of a chance.

…

"Bridget. I have a confession to make." Bridget turned as she poured herself another cup of Negus—in enough quantity, the mulled-wine-like drink had a pleasant buzz to it—and found Jane Austen standing there.

"To me?"

She nodded.

"I feel terrible about not feeling worse," said Jane quietly, "that I overheard your conversation with Mr Darcy. That I heard you refuse his offer of marriage. A man like Mr Darcy! Unheard of that he should be refused."

Bridget felt her face flood with her embarrassment. "Oh my God."

"No, please, do _not_ apologise," she said, taking Bridget's hand. "You have only made me wish I had my writing-box with me right now, for you have given me _such_ an inspiration for my story, both tonight and during our previous meetings. Observing your interactions with Mr Darcy has enlightened me and moves me to write in distinctly new directions. Thank you so much, my friend." With that she leaned forward and gave Bridget a kiss on each cheek. "I believe the vicar and his wife wish to depart… so I bid you a fond farewell." With that she smiled and stepped off to where the Watsons were waiting, along with Cassandra. Still stunned, Bridget held up a hand to wave goodbye.

The departure of the Watsons seemed to spur a mass exodus, which was convenient as Bridget was feeling bone-tired; in the company of Bingley and his sisters, she found Georgiana (whom she had barely seen all evening) to say goodnight. "Thank you for a lovely evening," said Bridget. "It is one I shall not soon forget."

"Goodnight, dearest Bridget," said Georgiana. "Sleep well."

…

When Darcy went to find her amongst the dwindling crowd, his sister told him she had already retired for the evening; he thanked her, then went up to his study and poured himself a scotch. _In the morning_, thought Darcy; _I will speak to her again in the morning, and I will make her see what I already know to be true._

As the minutes passed, as he partook of his drink, he decided that he could not possibly wait until the morning. He put down the empty tumbler and strode to her room, knocking firmly. After a few moments, the door swung open, and to his surprise she was not in her ball gown any longer, but was in her dressing gown, which she had clearly hastily put on over her unusual white chemise and pantalets, hair unpinned, earrings on the bureau.

"My legs get cold," she explained, pulling the dressing gown further closed; clearly she'd seen him looking down at the pantalets. He quickly looked up as she asked, "What can I do for you?"

"Come with me to my study," he said.

"Now?"

"Yes, if you please."

He was not going to merely hope she followed; he waited for her to come out the room and pull the door closed behind her, then directed her to the study.

"What is it that can't possibly wait until the morning?" she asked as he closed the study door. Her voice sounded weary.

"I have given what you said earlier a great deal of thought," he said, his eyes flitting for a moment to her unusually fine necklace with its sinuous pendant, "and I do not accept all of that nonsense about a fiancé and 'your London' as anything but a feeble excuse to refuse me. I find you intriguing, appealing, challenging, and… I ask you again to accept my offer of marriage, and if you must again refuse, I will have nothing but the plain truth from you."

Quite honestly, she looked a bit nervous as she took a moment to consider her words, and when she spoke it was with uncharacteristic humility. "If it's the plain truth you want, it's the plain truth you'll get, even if it makes me look like a madwoman in your eyes."

"So you refuse."

"Don't think I have a choice, Mr Darcy, and here's why, in plain talk," she said, some of her spark returning. "I come from the twenty-first century, where I have a job, a flat of my own, a group of friends I consider my family, and yes, a _fiancé_ who loves me very much, and whom I love in return. And yes, I do believe he is your great-great-something-grandson, because his name is Darcy too, and he is the spitting image of you. I don't know if I'll ever get back to my life or to him, but I have to hope I will, and that is not fair to me or to you." She stopped talking at last and took in a deep breath. "If you will pardon me… I am tired and I would like to go to sleep."

She was gone from the room before he thought to react or respond, but he quickly followed her out of the room and caught up with her near the staircase. As he approached he overheard her mumbling more nonsense about his thinking she was really a 'mad Mrs Rochester now.'

"Miss Jones," he said, reaching for her shoulder and turning her around. "_Bridget._ Stop. Please."

She looked up into his eyes. He grasped both of her shoulders and willed her to understand that an overactive imagination did not make her mad, that he would just continue to try to win her over at whatever the cost; however, instead of speaking, he surprised himself and her as well by bending down and roughly kissing her on the mouth. Surprising him more, however, was her reaction; instead of pushing him away or slapping him hard on the face, her arms came up around his neck, pulling herself up into the kiss, eagerly returning each of them with far more passion than any lady had ever shown to him.

Without a second thought he swept her up off of her feet and carried her into his room, further care for propriety be damned. He brought her to the bed and set her down, began to kiss her again, loosed her dressing gown to reveal the chemise he had first seen her wearing when she had appeared in the very place she now rested. His hand moved over her waist, then shrugged the dressing gown over her shoulders and off. He skimmed his fingers over her lovely face, then bent to kiss her again—

Abruptly he stopped. In his haste to bring her in here, he had neglected to latch the door behind them, and the sound of footsteps in the hallway suddenly brought this to the forefront of his mind. "The lock," he said quietly before rising. She nodded, and he held her gaze with his own as long as he could before turning away to twist the key and secure the door.

When he turned back to face her, his eyes seemed to be playing tricks on him, for all that remained on the bed was the dressing gown he had just removed from her; the lady herself was not there. "Bridget," he said, then, thinking perhaps he had frightened her, said, "Miss Jones." No response. He did a circuit of the room—pulling aside the drapes, even dropping to examine beneath the bed—and it seemed clear in very short order that she was no longer present.

He was perplexed. The only way out of the room was through the door he had just locked. Despite this, he returned quickly to the door and unlocked it, then went into the hall, heart racing, only to nearly run into his cousin Fitzwilliam.

"Darcy! On my way to bed I saw light in your study and since you were not there, I put out the candle—What is the matter?"

"Did anyone pass by you out here?"

"What? No," said Fitzwilliam. "Everyone has gone to bed. Why? Have we an intruder?"

Darcy indicated without words that his cousin join him in his bedroom. Instantly Fitzwilliam spotted the lady's dressing gown on the bed, and his eyes got wide. "Darcy," he said. "What has happened?"

"It would seem," said Darcy, feeling suddenly dejected and forlorn, "that our guest and my ward has left us as mysteriously as she appeared."

"Without her dressing gown?"

"Nothing had happened," he said, though the understanding that something assuredly would have happened hung heavily between them for many silent moments.

"Still, where did she go? _How?_" Fitzwilliam asked, though it was more rhetorical than anything, since clearly he did not expect an answer out of Darcy. "I do not suppose there is a point in raising an alarm, is there?"

"If she did not pass you in the hallway, then no, there is no point," said Darcy. "She has vanished as if a ghost."

"How will this be explained? Midnight coach whisked her back to London?" Fitzwilliam asked. Darcy did not know, but reasoned that was as good a story as any. The colonel sighed, then continued, "This has left me in a state of astonishment."

"And me as well," Darcy said, his voice quiet. He could only think of her story, her tale of a life in the future, and wondered if it might not have been true, after all—

"Well, wherever she has gone, if we never see her again, I will be sorry," said Fitzwilliam. "I grew very fond of her in the near sennight she spent with us… and it is plain to me that you care greatly for her."

"I thank you," he said, barely audible.

—_the future_, he thought again, _of which I might have known something but did not ask_. The more he considered her improbable but apparently true tale, though, he did smile, because if this future fiancé of hers was a descendant of his… then that meant he would have happiness in his life after all.

For the first time since Bridget had disappeared, he smiled.

…

"Good morning, darling."

Bridget opened her eyes from her deep slumber and gasped. Smiling down at her was not Mr Darcy—oh God, how close she had come to utter betrayal!—but her own wonderful, handsome, loving fiancé. "Mark!" she exclaimed, then threw herself at him, embracing him tightly, knocking him back onto his pillow and kissing him desperately, tears welling in her eyes.

"Well," he said as she nuzzled into his neck, placing kisses there, combing her fingers through his hair. "I'll take that to mean it _is_ a good morning. Was thinking of ordering breakfast but this seems like a much nicer start to our Saturday."

She stopped and drew back to look at him. "Saturday?"

"Yes," he said. "Since we only arrived last night, remember?"

She blinked in her confusion. She had lived almost a week at Pemberley in the space of a single night! "Oh!" she said.

"What is it?"

"I…" She looked up at Mark. "I had the most vivid dream about living in this house in Regency England. It was 1810, there was a ball, and Jane Austen was there, and I was Mr Darcy's ward."

For a moment she wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or feel for a fever. "Well, for a minute there I was worried you were going to say 'Mr Darcy's mistress'," he said in a facetious tone. This made her blush furiously, which made him laugh. "Oh, darling," he said, scooping her up into his embrace. "Even if you did it's just a dream, and as you said, he looks like me, so I can't be too fussed."

She grinned, then kissed him again; he seemed to be determined to compete with her supposed dream-lover and eagerly ran his hands over her willing body. "Bridget," he asked quietly, a hint of amusement tinting his voice. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"What?" She pushed back to see his hand splayed upon her partially bared bottom—and to see that she was, impossibly enough, wearing the lacy pantalets she had kept on because her legs had been cold…

Her gaze flashed up to meet his, and unsurely she smiled. "Surprise…?"

_The end._


End file.
